Before the arborist came,

two walnut trees blocked my view of the city.

Fruit pummeled the aluminum roof.

From dusk to dawn, it woke me with a thunderous drum.

They blackened my hands and knees; the yard was packed.

Picking rotten walnuts off the hill in the back.

The wretched fruit I never ate.

I smelled the ground and cursed them as we wasted away together.

For 40 years I scorned the trees,

but the highway now drowns me in clarity.

My sleepy friend stains and haunts I-70

where voices of screaming trucks heckle me.