Stark black branches hold fast while the leaves rustle in their soft rebellion. The trees are ordinary in both size and shape, and I assume variety—it’s too dark to tell. They’re backlit though, the once benignly beautiful growths now looming overhead, dripping with detached menace. It’s a reverse corona and I see it everywhere. It’s in the face of a dog when he’s lolling about and you catch his warped gaze, in your own reflection three yards away, the mirror dusty and smeared with grease. They say there is a seedy underbelly to most things, but this is different. This is being struck for an instant by an odd revealing angle; it’s peeling back the skin of a perfect sweet onion and being hit by the fumes.