Only You Can
You’re in the form of a redwood hunched and weeping in the corner. You forgot your lunch pail and none of the other trees will share with you. “Isn’t this a great sunny day?” I whisper to you. You sniff wetly, but I’m hoping you’ll still discuss the weather with me – redwoods are great predictors of rain and I’m planning an outdoor encounter group this weekend.
You teleport to the other side of the river, then stagger and throw up. Trees do that sometimes when they’re upset; they can’t really control it. I offer you some newspaper to cover up the mess.
“Are you the literal queen?” you say. I can’t tell if you’re being sarcastic. I think of the matches in my pocket, then feel guilty for thinking of matches.
Smokey the bear appears by the river, scooping sand into his pail. He is shirtless, as usual.“Mr. Smokey,” I say as I bend next to him, “Are the woods on fire?”
“It’s Smokey,” he growls, “just Smokey.”