[Rain, distant bus brake, bare branches in wind] They cut down a lot of trees in this town. But only one they had to cut twice. Down by the old Trailways station, there was a tree. Big oak. Except it never grew leaves. Not in spring, not in summer. Bare. Year round. The old folks said if you poked it with a nail, it bled. Dark sap, thick, red as clay. When it rained, the rain ran down red. Kids said the tree was crying. That's where they did it. Before the courthouse. Before the clock. That tree saw what happened. That's why it never grew leaves again. Some things you see, you don't come back from. They said you could still hear the rope creak on a windy night. Even when there was no rope. They finally cut it down in '89. Thought that would end it. But when that trunk hit the ground, the ground underneath was stained. Dark. Deep. Like it soaked right into the earth. They tried to build on that lot after they tore the Trailways down. A store. Then a shop. Then nothing. Nothing stays there long. Now it's just a barren lot. Grass won't even grow right. Nothing but ghost and memories. And rain. When it rains, that lot still weeps.
