I cannot sleep, I will not wake. Through the walls I hear the beating. Like hitting something empty, like hitting something stiff: like beating the scarecrow by the lake. And then the water comes. It bunches the glass and stops my bleeding, like the tree now gone who blocked the water. Then I will be reading the book you gave me for my birthday, when the tree was a little thing like me. Still I am a little thing you say. Little to bend, a thing to bleed. Like the body I hear through these walls, not crying, not screaming, but beating.