The trouble with these old, gnarled trees still standing upright in the earth and in the air is that they want to remain homes to the many homeless evening-birds.
The birds incessantly chatter with slum kids in shanties with tin roofs glistening in the sun ,through old cycle tires and tarpaulin tatters ,kept defensively in place against wind by a motley collection of stones.
The old trees do not realize , in their death, that the gardener’s three-stone stove Is waiting impatiently for their dry logs to arrive in its enormous, crackling fire.
The Morning is Just a Dream 