The trees do not share their secrets with me. The chill lingers below their branches Reminding me of long ago seasons. They converse unintelligibly, beneath a sky growing silvery with the light from the moon.   Who watches them from above their secretive exchange, I do not know but under the network of crisscrossing branches I walk along the broad streets of a foreign country. I imagine trees elsewhere, a silver sky elsewhere, the whisper of the wind elsewhere, the chill in the air elsewhere, that lone star shining close to the moon the birds making their way home, all elsewhere. On nights like this, I live in many places simultaneously.