All life resembles rhetorical answers to questions about existence.
There are no truer conclusions than what is spoken by the passive voices of trees.
Secrets in endless probing roots which explode under and out where trunk meets ground.
A flattish line of quartz and topsoil like choppy water reflecting light in gleams and flashes, whole oceans of deep furrows glimmering like the side of a fish.
But dirt absorbs the light. Holds on to it. Gives back a dull color or two as thanks.
And keeps the rest.
But water is fast-changing, murky flows grow south and clear and confess awkward truth like ignorant youth.
So soil stays broken. Smaller fragments of a former self.
All parts of it translated to nutrient and sediment.
Ready to give us up all the tree secrets.