The tree cuts off the green blood to its branches. The leaves speak first of rationing what little blood is left. Committees are elected to determine who dies first. But that night the leaves grow nervous. Each one lies awake in secret, sucking its branch dry. In the morning, they’re all sorry and anemic. They’re paling into red or into yellow. Maybe orange. Maybe purple. They watch each other drying out, penitent, lightheaded.
They pass out into darkness, into a dream of floating, floating.