Tree, in all her turpitude, wants so very badly to be a real girl. Root and soil hold it not; over centuries she begins to move. Wrinkles sidewalks, trips over small children on kick scooters, laughs, as girls do, openly and softly. (There is a gentle, soft breeze in the leaves.) Wants a nose, wants eyes, wants a nice gentle girl to sit among her roots, sheafing through the pages of a book, which were also made parts from another tree. The sun translucent through the pages. How very erotic, thinks the tree. (There is a groaning of sap.) Girl like the ones on two legs with one hand braced against her trunk blushing from the heat. Girl like the bare arms swinging from her lower branches. Weather-appropriate cotton-polyester blend skirt seated on the big grafted growth that bends low like a U. Girllike sighing for the condensation of the dawn. She is getting a little too old for this world, she thinks, but that isn't going to stop her from feeling what she feels and wanting what she wants. She's feeling very excited from all this wanting that she stops growing to catch her breath. It's a good day to be in a good country that takes care of you, waters you, trims leaves, place girls around you etc. except the whole wanting to be a girl part, of course. By morning, the groundsmen find her dead and toppled from the weight of her sorry heart.