Green sprigs, tree chatter

Through all the wailing and swaying, they let their expletives flow.  Blowing down wind on the humans below them.  A branch might cut across the face of an unsuspecting victim of these grouches.  No doubt their knots and knees have them bent and angry.  'Hello, down there!'  'Hello, indeed! You walk where you want and you don't care to keep your own space!'  It was all a bunch of bafflegab to the urchins below, who simply want to get on their way.  The children skin knees on the stones below the trees and yet they won't cry.  The trees believe the kids all speak gibberish.  They are a pack of wandering dolts chattering gobbledygook.  The screams, it seems, pull the trees from their roots.  No old oak can put up with screams.  And that is what some of the children do, even when in play and perfectly content.  'Keep your caterwauling to yourself!'  The bent old oak says.  Even though, to the children, the trees sound like nothing more than leaves brushing leaves in a rushing wind.