Branches above me form a sharp counterpoint to the cloud-changing sky--each delicate arch spiking the air. I watch their edges imperceptibly blur until they are no more than shadows of old needles on the next rise.
The pines overshadow the oaks. At the very least, they keep their secrets longer. Oaks are unstable, the pines say. They use history to prove this.
Pirates buried their treasure only under oak trees. The third branch over, its shadow at midnight. Walk three paces widdershins. Had they known what I know about pines in shadows, they would have regained their secrets a thousandfold.