Where I work they judge the depth and breadth of knowledge and often find the cubic breath of others more wanting than their own. Mr. Kazos (art merchant at the flea market) says it’s understandable that I delight in trees, which confer sighs — outside the office. I think his tone needs translation from the Greek. Lots of Dryads at a window? Or a single pine on the edge of his soccer field? A plant keeps extending, dividing, looking old and getting new young parts. A robin clutching a twig of pear buds. Riffle of jay-blue inside the almond frills. A crow came to the balcony today to eat a pigeon egg. We should gather the eggs. But I worry about parental rue. Do no harm. To what degree? Care that you do no harm. The flaxen light on one side of a poplar. Or paired emerald souls walking into a live-oak pollen storm. Where I work I have to referee an art film in cyberspace. My father has the real uniform, the black on white, the running shoes, the signals in his hands and rag and whistle. My room is paneled with old landscapes, uneven ground, and spotty light. The movie’s characters are intellectual and f*** to prove they’re human, still. My father would throw them a penalty, an acorn slow to sprout. Wish they were arboreal, unconflicted creatures conceiving trees. One harp does nothing to make another harp sweat. For myself I didn’t like the tale’s devolution. I’m fonder of amicable boundaries, arboretums, a scoreless game, and special occasions sweet as a valentine and die-cut. No lesser art than shunga. A clean win, or, if a loss, fair — impartial. Congratulatory. Equality falls open like a silk kimono with a brocade of maple leaves, or that leaf-losing tree accepting winter’s silver seasoning.