“The trees,” You point to the stalks that form a canopy around you. A web of offshoots cuts patterns into the sky. “Do you think when we get older they will no longer seem beautiful? That the years will strip the magic and leave only the skeleton of what we used to know? Just trees, and nothing more.”
You look ahead, the words pouring of their own accord. The air is gray as you drive together in the car, comprising a unit very small in comparison with the vastness of the universe, but very warm.
“No, I don’t think it will get old.”
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