Spanish Moss dangles from the outstretched arms of the Banyan Tree.
Vines grip the trunk in symbiotic embrace.
Rodents scurry around in attempts to procure their next meal.
I watch and patiently wait...
The bench near the base is covered in graffiti; newspapers litter the bare ground where grass once grew.
Stagnant water from a nearby retention pond flows through her veins while reptilian death plies the waters, camouflaged in her roots.
Wrapped in plastic garbage bags held together by his own feces the soul of this tree has come to espouse the knowledge of the unseen world.
He argues with a "never was" confidant about a war he was to young to have fought and wine he couldn't possibly have drank.
His borrowed shopping cart filled to the brim with his "groceries" and delectable gains.
The aroma of filth and waste permeates the once clean air of the Banyan Tree and I wait patiently...
The Spanish moss dangles towards his plastic appendages and the vines grip his waist.
Rodents rummage through his things in search of the scraps of so many meals.
He argues with the photographs in the discarded newspaper and smears the bench with his essence.
The mismatched shoes drop into the murky waters with a splash and the reptiles submerge, filled with the expectancy of the sustenance that is sure to follow.
He soon joins his unseen friend in the nether reaches of existence and the reptiles feed on what the Banyan has left behind.
If only there were more Banyan Trees in this park...
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