Steve Chab's Music

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.