Problem Hiding Problems

Steve Chab's Music

Before the arborist came, two walnut trees blocked my view of the city. Fruit pummeled the aluminum roof. From dusk to dawn, it woke me with a thunderous drum. They blackened my hands and knees; the yard was packed. Picking rotten walnuts off the hill in the back. The wretched fruit I never ate. I smelled the ground and cursed them as we wasted away together. For 40 years I scorned the trees, but the highway now drowns me in clarity. My sleepy friend stains and haunts I-70 where voices of screaming trucks heckle me.