Like preschoolers

(queued
all lined-up
uneven
like a breeze
bumbling
rumbling
vibrating with
tiny energy —
not small,
but compact —
young voices
crackling with
electricity
swapping places
and again
and again
and again
arms outstretched
in
hugs
fights
gesticulations
living
dying
and
living again)

come my words
as I grasp
at dead trees.