I’m sure they were the same trees.
Sometimes it’s confusing-the criss-crossing of light splayed through the canopy. I see golden shapes-squares and diamonds on the asphalt. The Japanese call it komorebi. The number plates of vehicles ahead of me make me want to shield my eyes. Or wear shades, the glare is blinding.
It’s the same trees that murmur sweet nothings to a lonely man on Valentine’s day. The same trees that hug the soil on rainy days, afraid to let go. The same trees that touch the sky for you and me, because it’s beyond our reach. Not that we ever stop to whisper something in return-the branches have gone deaf with the insensitive honking and the leaves are coated with soot.
I’m also quite sure they were the same trees that were cut down, to widen the roads. I know this because I don’t see the golden shapes any more, and the number plates are dull.