Fingers grow numb, grasped around a silvery bronze handle, rubbing thumb patiently over time-marked patches of worn brass plating.

Wind blows, attention pulled back to the world behind me, Aspen whispering memories.

Grip firm, set latch, metal rings from fumbled keys. Turn to face the trees.

Loose stones find purchase on the asphalt plain, grinding and cruching under sole with each steady fall of foot.

Mind lingers on the bristle of leaves.

How many?

Why leaves?

Why so tall?

What for?

Why so old?

Why so small?

Answers for some catch in thought, most slip like scrape of heel on street.

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Mindless turn, skip step over toe trap grate, attention away in woken dream.

Past sheer cliffs of brick, studded with jewels of tempered glass.

Road creatures roar, grumble, purr past. Distant eyes glance side to side.

But eyes still see presence of man.

How much change?

Why so much?

Why not enough?

How long will it last?

When will it rot?

What will be left?

More path, no curb. Trees, bushes, and shrubs speak with songs and chirps.

Humms of people see no light, further uphill less human blight.

Still on mound where flowers bloom unbidden, unnatural thunder buzzez.

In grey branches flows, guided, uncontrolled. Yet critter and creature perch.

Wish to join their ignorance.

Do they understand?

Can they see?

How do they feel?

how do they speak?

why do they think?

Why must they die?

Stay, sit. Sense the air, delight in floral smell.

Time moves, all things. Even stationary, never still.

Move, back, retrace, forward. Shrubs sing, different song, different places.

Town taunts re-approach. Apshpalt stones once were there, now here.

Arm swings, hand claps. Lock rattles, clacks. Gust tugs, step foot half inside.

Pause, look back, matching memory, not time.

I ask questions.

Why?