Acres of precariously cut trees line the pavement, made exactly to order, created for dollars and thin-headed minds. They aren’t how they’re mean’t to be now, are they? They’re dead, and serve no purpose other than boosting property value.
Then there’s the trees in the park; they’re alright. A bit more real, for sure, but not the same. Still the masters of dictation by designers with no appreciation for nature’s flow. Most are almost a carbon copy of the stereotype; circle or triangular shaped heads, with a smooth round tail connecting to the surface.
When you come to a small town, don’t expect those types of things. Don’t look for the thin lines, smooth bark, and neatly trimmed leaves. They have no emotion, describe no feeling.
What does?
Trees, made more as thick sticks than anything. Trees bare of all their leaves, minus the stubborn few who resist the tides of winter. Their flesh is mangled and *****, a testament to nature itself. The smell, the sight, it all captures a distinct feeling you will never get from the ******* in Central Park.