Before the arborist came,
two walnut trees blocked my view of the city.
Fruit pummeled the aluminum roof.
From dusk to dawn, it woke me with a thunderous drum.
They blackened my hands and knees; the yard was packed.
Picking rotten walnuts off the hill in the back.
The wretched fruit I never ate.
I smelled the ground and cursed them as we wasted away together.
For 40 years I scorned the trees,
but the highway now drowns me in clarity.
My sleepy friend stains and haunts I-70
where voices of screaming trucks heckle me.
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