The sound of a million rain drops
On a million leaves
From above the canopy
On a hilltop
Overlooking miles of rolling pasture
Separating you from the forest
Where the leaves hang
Oblivious to their fate
Upward toward the sun
Shunning neither wind or water’s wrath
Existing for the sole purpose
Of existing
Complaining not of the lack of organic
Food or how the herbicide a farmer
At the top of one hill applied so he could
Grow coffee will eventually affect the water supply
Or the drought
Or the harvesting of ancient hardwoods
Or the economy
Or war
Or starvation
Or homelessness
Or love?
I have.
