Before the arborist came,two walnut trees blocked my view of the city.Fruit pummeled the aluminum roof.From dusk to dawn, it woke me with a thunderous drum.They blackened my hands and knees; the yard was packed.Picking rotten walnuts off the hill in the back.The wretched fruit I never ate.I smelled the ground and cursed them as we wasted away together.For 40 years I scorned the trees,but the highway now drowns me in clarity.My sleepy friend stains and haunts I-70where voices of screaming trucks heckle me.