Prose from Brian Barbeito

White man with dark sunglasses, a plaid sweater, a gray tee shirt and a small manicured beard.

The Golden Tree

The golden tree leaves it’s leaves, and they descend like bits of something, their karma being fulfilled perhaps and they moving to something even better. They pass a smaller red tree, on the way down to the ground; and a green one, larger than the first two yet; still waits proudly and full of verdant branches atop. The world is not only ambitious, it is incredibly, highly, impossibly ambitious. Every angle is thought of. And more new angles are created. Nobody notices the tree leaves, for what value has it in their racket? The radio is full of the news of the politician that got caught trying to sell the otherwise protected ecosystem, green land, to his developer friends to create urban sprawl. It’s good he got caught. The deer and coyote, the porcupine and beaver, the woodpecker and butterfly, the moss and agate even, and of course the trees, will be safe for now. For a little bit perhaps. The golden tree leaves blanket the ground. A man beyond them puts out his thumb, in the hitchhiking symbol and sign, and a car stops. But he is just in jest, having fun, because he knows the driver and was waiting for the ride. oh golden tree, who are thee? If the souls that we knew before don’t come up again in talk or something,- we may forget them altogether. hmm. The new developers must already be waiting in the wings. They must be making plans. They surely wake up early. They are ambitious. Their mothers are proud of what they accomplish. They will make so much money one day. Of a poet or mystic, they don’t care and never shall. Pure nonsense. But no matter what they do or say, the golden tree, in early autumn, was there, was there, was there at one time. The Akashic or something kinder than the world and it’s ways, surely knows this also. 

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