A sick tree had puked leaves on a man's lawn. It was that time of year, said his wife. He had heard this said before. No one had ever told him what it meant. He instead took the tree for a rogue and the next morning sought revenge. He battled the bark with a pair of metal scissors. He came at it from several different angles - sideways, over the hedge. They did little damage. He couldn't understand it. He tried the scissors on his own skin, cutting off his thumb. They still had their magic. But now he was in tremendous pain. From the upper levels of the tree, a dry knocking sound. The tree, laughing at him.