In the streets of birth, red rivers of sap clog the gutters. The leaves journey. Ratclaws build skeletons of railroads. Where will the child come from? The crocodiles that no one thinks exist live off of dirt. But nothing stands without them. A bus, despite all odds, full of eggs slips around in the muck but keeps itself righted and warm. The driver is anonymous like the crocodiles. A shift in wind and the buildings tilt, creaking like they will break, but they will not. Today is too boring for that. Clouds reflecting in the red sap are like explosions. Evidence of a colossal bang which reveals ruins lasting until the clouds dry up forever. Ruins are stronger than life. Organic matter avoids them. Growing around, incorporating, but never letting them lose the focus of attention. A protective canopy of patio umbrellas may cover the most sensitive. Interference is for the birds. All birds are statues. The eggs will never hatch. The bus will never arrive. The child will never be born. Only the sap celebrates. Carrying a dirt particle as a leaf climbs a mountain. Enough leaves become a mountain.