Some trees are young and naive.

They cover their insecure selves in attention seeking red.

And orange and yellow and gold.

They hold on to these flashy colors long after it is appropriate.

Well after the season has ended.

They are not to be interacted with, but admired from a distance.

They are still and quiet under the light of day. Afraid of losing their top, or their skirt riding up.

They smolder but do not dance.

They cling to their autumn finery, afraid to shed their bravado and lay themselves bare to the world.

Some trees are older and wiser.

They do not seek the sun- warm approval of the world; the finicky etiquette of style magazines that tells them what is in fashion, or when they are past their prime.

Some trees, these trees, shed their needles and their inhibitions as the sun goes down.

The street lights become spot lights and they dance in the light of the artificial moon, and care not who is watching.