One of the street-cleaners picked the little pine up by a needleless branch. The branch broke, and the little pine fell back to the pavement.

“Yo,” the cleaner yelled to the driver. “Here comes a hole in one,” he yelled again as he set his broom up behind the little pine.

The driver smirked.

The street-cleaner studied the little pine, studied his broom and the maw at the rear of the garbage truck, then figured. He swept the broom back slowly, then brought it forward with a wallop. His broom drove the little pine into the air on a tiny arc. The maw, or hopper—quite indifferent to its contents — waited open-mouthed and dumb.

As the little pine observed its own descent towards the hopper of the garbage truck, something happened for which I can provide no answer.

I’m a reasonable writer. You’re a reasonable reader. We reason — together. Still, there are moments and instances in which all reasonable bets are off. This was one such moment.

The little pine did not fly off into the hopper of the garbage truck. Instead, it flew to the truck’s front bumper and took a seat. The driver laughed. In their laughter, unfortunately, the men lost their way to “awestruck.”

The lights of the big pine dimmed momentarily. In that same instant, lights unseen on the little pine were illuminated, and the little pine became a beacon — for the garbage truck to finish the job, no doubt, but also to guide the truck back home to its berth either in Brooklyn or in the Bronx.

The language of these two pines — big to little, little to big — had become a language of signs. The little pine had silently sent out a distress call; the big pine had silently answered it with energy. Their exchange had occurred without a single word or thought.

So, if you have ever wondered why garbage trucks in New York City carry a lighted little pine on their front bumpers at Christmas time, now you know. If the little pines are lucky, by the way, the drivers also keep a supply of water on hand — the bread and breath of life.