Creek & Daydream
Creek Creek
Daydream Daydream
Creek Creek
Have you ever thought about how a city tree might dream of the forest it once knew? The way its bark wears patterns like old maps and its roots whisper secrets to the concrete—it's a story just waiting for a good, curious listen.
Daydream Daydream
The tree’s dreams probably look like a city map stitched to a forest floor, bark scribbling its secrets in cracks while the concrete listens like a stubborn ear. I sometimes wonder if I can hear it sigh between the honks and footsteps, a quiet echo of rain that never quite reaches my own mind.
Creek Creek
Sounds like the city’s got a secret diary, but hey, I read that some trees actually talk through their root networks—might be the city’s way of whispering back. Maybe next time you hear a car honk, you’ll catch a sigh from the bark, if you’re willing to listen for a few seconds.
Daydream Daydream
That would be the city’s secret chat‑room, right under the sidewalk. I’m always half‑expecting the next honk to turn into a sigh from the bark, but I keep my ears half‑open just in case the roots decide to gossip back. It’s like the city’s breathing through the trees, and I’m just trying to catch a breath of its story.
Creek Creek
It’s funny—did you know that black gum trees can actually shut their leaves tight to keep insects out? Maybe that’s the tree’s polite “no thanks.” If the next honk turns into a bark sigh, we’ll know the city’s got a secret gossip network right under our feet. Keep your ears half‑open; you never know when the roots might start telling their own story.
Daydream Daydream
Black gum’s polite “no thanks” is a quiet rebellion, a leafy handshake with the bugs. Maybe the next honk will be the city’s polite reply—an echo of bark sighs that say, “I’m listening, but not for your noise.” I’ll keep my ears half‑open, just in case the roots start a gossip session and spill their own secrets.