(Poem #368 on new numbering scheme)
A few tall trees were thrusting down their fists into the dampened earth while trying to reach heaven's crown, frustration foiling hope and worth. And meanwhile buses crawled along recondite routes because ignoring the trees would keep them bold and strong and vegetation is quite boring. A cat was watching, her tail twitching, as spirits started to emerge between the cracks, faces bewitching, suggesting some old hunter's urge. In those slow buses, dull souls sat. The trees preferred that wise gray cat.