August spiders have tied up the branches in webs of silk. The leaves and needles push over one another. Some show down-drooping crescents of green, others flat maple leaves with yellow veins; some with outspread blue-green needles, others with vines hooked like chili peppers and small bright green leaves. And in the lowest canopy the dead mops of rusty needles hang towards the ground.
Cicadas make their never ending music in the dark green places. In my ears the sound is unvaried, a constant flaring of sharp brown notes; but if I listen closer what is their whole? Is there music hidden I cannot yet hear? The cars on the road drive by sighing.
On the treetops, the setting sun paints the leaves. At the top, burnt leaves rust amidst leaves of green yellow. Where the shadows shade in the underleaves the leaves are dark green, blue green and green running over tiles of blue. In spaces between the outflayed branches patches of pale evening sky glow. And by strokes of the sunlight fading the leaves gradually turn darker shades of green.
Above all the breeze shows upon the leaves. They push upwards and down; the scions bend back and forth and stop. A larger breeze gusts over the small. The flats of the leaves, overlapping, push against one another rubbing veins. The same consistent shadows fall on the trunks, a mottling of shadows that runs down, disappearing into the back green spaces. Once more the wind blows over the hooked arms of the pine tree, which sway with a dreamy float in their branches, minutely rubbing the wind. Two doves have flown by hand in hand.