The trees wear tall, prickly green hats on their heads: nightcaps
I stare at the straight line of their guard until my eyes go numb, from refusing to blink
Plastic chairs, a charred can of something, and the campfire where talk becomes loose
“You’ll make a good wife someday”
Oh, so you think everything I’m doing is leading towards the end-goal of marriage?
The trees grow a bit taller in their silence, standing sentry
I thought they were on my side.