The Puking Tree

The Zook/Petty family knows when autumn is near because the beautiful tree in our front yard begins belching up branches.  In the narrative I concoct while working in the yard, these branches signify the tree's hearty metabolism.  The tree wants to know what life is like in autumn--wants to see what the nightlife is all about, you could say.  It starts shedding branches to get in shape for the well-to-dos and floozies in neighborhood.   

The season's parties are underway.  This week, the branches that survived the belching began throwing up.

 

















This tree gets drunk on November, binging through windy afternoons and rainy weekends.  Heartily soused, it challenges the other trees on the block to drinking games, then shames them back into their sophomoric corners with its strong arms raised to the darkening skies in exaltation.  Even the most diligent humans, armed with the finest machines that Sears Robuck and Company can provide, remain unable to intervene with this lush's tear and the aftermath of its leafy vomit.

Then, quite quickly, the tree's indulgence subsides.  Surrounding trees remain indignant, stuck in destructive cycles of addiction and perpetual hangovers brought on by their inability to purge.  Fall turns to winter, and autumn walks out without so much as a kiss on the cheek.