Last night the trees were walking in the old drainage ditch

I was standing in the old drainage ditch behind the Lefevre place, except it wasn't a ditch, it was a procession. The sycamores had uprooted themselves and were walking single-file toward town, roots dangling like they were gathering hems. One paused to hand me a cigarette case made of bark. I woke up with leaf litter in my hair — or that's what I told myself when I found a dried maple key on the pillow.