A Writing...

I was just sifting through the "Personal" folder I have here on my work computer and found this little bit I apparently wrote last summer while bored; It's not great, but I like certain aspects of it:

One tree across the street from my office window, the one nearest the corner by the vacant, grassy lot, is clearly dying. Its scant leaves all yellow and brown misshapes (on the few branches that aren’t completely bare) appear especially dreadful when compared to the rest of the trees along the block (with their robust green foliage despite their scrawnier trunks). I mourn the corner tree, but more I wonder what could have happened to ruin it. It bears no outward damage – no bark stripped away by bored teenage vandals or roots exposed by carelessly operated vehicles. The small bed at this maple’s base is freshly mulched, in fact, thanks to the neighborhood improvement agency’s hard work. Yet the tree doesn’t thrive. Is it the exhaust from idling southbound buses waiting at the intersection for the light to change or that of big rig trucks laboring to turn left around the corner? Perhaps it’s just not a city tree. Should have been planted in the country or as an example of its kind in an arboretum… Like me? I wither and waste in the city all day long performing menial labor for paltry pay; standing idly by while others wring their hands and fret over spreadsheets of numbers and network connection speeds and errors in newspaper articles published yesterday. I nod at appropriate times, take notes, appear diligent and dutiful – yet I lose a little of my spirit with each passing day. Will this begin to show on my face? And if so, how soon?