Tree Surgeons on the Aberdeen Line
You woke one night to railway tree surgeons giving the trees by the track their yearly trim with their hybrid carriage of mechanical limbs. It was half like Megatron of the Decepticons and half a visitation of the archangel Metatron wailing sawdust with jazzy chainsaw hymns whimsically besetting the trees around him just as it was all kicking off in your abdomen.
You watched the surgeons in their orange vests chucking sapling after sapling into the chipper, and asked me what they did with fallen nests. I stayed in bed, watching you in your slippers, with a silhouette so stark against the window for one brief moment I mistook it for a halo.