Today on the way home from Wal-mart down Huguenard Road I was thinking about the trees and what they dream about in winter. All the months they are naked and gray and still in the cold. Do they dream of summer, when they are full-green with faces turned to the sun. Or that first warm day of spring when winter dies. And we are all reborn. Or are they too human. And dream of the day at the peak of fall when they are at their most beautiful and dramatic, blood-red and fire-orange, bleeding out in an October wind. I tried to listen to their dream as I drove by, but the radio was too loud and I drove too fast. Somebody who has just been to Wal-mart is maybe not the best person to wonder about these trees and their quiet dreams. Although someone should.