Staring at trees, slightly askew, and very much uprooted; as if floating upon their own air. Blowing leaves like shifty vigilantes as if running from those of the breath they stole. Rembrandts of modern day they are, the way the go unoticed but so evidently present. These are the things that make the days, the tiniest of idiosyncrosies that life couldn't be without. We are evermore the passers-by; so calmly blinking, missing such wonderous events of no marveled accord.