At dusk, the city climbs into trees. Streetlights fold into branches; apartments blink like nesting owls. Commuters dangle from vines in tailored suits, sipping moonlight through trembling leaves. You knock on my bark-body, and I let you in. Inside, my ribcage rings with cicadas who know what happens next. We speak in pollen and prophecy. Beneath us, ancient rivers chant our forgotten lexicons like we'd even care to remember what was lost. When morning comes, the city yawns, stretches its roots, and sinks back into concrete skin. We pretend it never left. But I still cough up twigs. I still dream in chlorophyll. You still whisper in leafspeak: "we were wild once." And I believe you.