They walk rhythmically

Their feet fall one over the other

Their mouths move aimlessly

Their movements constantly change

One stepped over me and called the other to ask “How long you do think this oak has been here?”
I breathe

I’ve been here for many breaths

Many lifetimes

Many streams of time

Patches of  hydrangeas grew

But then slowly died

Buildings grew but soon they cried

People grew but the good ones all died

So I cried

And they sighed

“Why is the oak tipping over?” they say

The oak has been here breaths too long 

Breaths short and constrained 

waiting for its last deep breath