Thicket never had anthropomorphic aspirations. Truth be told, he found most aspects of sentience a drag. Mostly he worried. Walking was a bother. He envied Tree his deep, anchoring roots, steady foliage, and one-track mind: Up. Thicket was ashamed of his growing jealousy but unable to prune it back. So, resigned, he continued. Besides, Thicket was quite certain that evergreens mocked, secretly, the seasonally stricken: all their budding, the panicked growth, changing, and for what? Repeat. Repeat. Repeat. Just once, Thicket thought, wouldn't it be nice to break the pattern, skip the hoopla, stay bare despite starlight, tilt, and Time?