tree>car

We should be so lucky. To start the day with an enormous breakfast and also learn to fasten my accordion to my bicycle, though it looks much less French than it sounds, is to be full and free. Am I right?
But here, here is where it happens:
We are in our bedrooms at night and we hear:
A) A dancer colliding with all of our fine china.
B) The certain death of one upstairs and to the right (if you are, in fact, observing from the tree's perspective).
C) A car meeting the front porch.
D) What on Earth? Maybe the end of it.
E) That, that was a real fall.

And so that great tree on our front lawn that gave us big flat mushrooms for hats and blueprints for tire swings fell hard and suddenly we had on our hands a block party! It is the most exciting thing to happen all week (it happens to be a Sunday, which may be the beginning or the end but who's counting?) and then I feel like a kidder who just won the jungle gym lottery or a teenager who has been left home alone for a few days for the first time. So we climb, a little bit. There is some broken glass from the back left corner of a car called "HOPFER" and I bet Hopfer's going to be straight pissed when he learns "TREE>CAR" even if it's just a tail light, though the way the tree hugged the car otherwise might indicate some kind of collaboration. I hope for the former, mostly.
The authorities show up and tell us to stop having fun but they are laughing a little bit, too. I am bitten by something which hurts worse than a bee sting, maybe a tiny vampire, and later Byron finds plantain at the bottom of the tree. I chew it a little and swallow a little of its water before turning a small piece of the space on the outer side of my left leg, between by shin and my calf (I do not know my anatomy), into a small swamp. It is connective and I somehow feel a little bit more powerful because the tree is kind of part of me through this tiny red hole in my leg that begins to swell and bruise.
So, the light on the tree is beautiful and perfect and everyone is taking photos (digital) except for us who are too busy scavenging pieces for shelves and keepsakes and can you even guess how many wooden spoons you could make from this half tree who just came to abandon its ancestry like me? Not that it's on purpose, or anything.
I imagine that a baby was born with that blue, blue light shooting from center of the tree and splitting away its third.