This is the Richland Creek in Green County, Indiana. Nothing spectacular about it, but this is how much of southern Indiana looks like in winter. This creek is bridged by an enormous railroad trestle, whose insisting presence almost justifies is existence.
Near the ground, the steel posts are hidden in the brush. Then they emerge, undeniably.
Made, not grown, and grabbing all the space there is.
Is dialogue possible?
The letter T, with which both Tree and Trestle begin, (and Tower, Tall, Top, and others, worse) seems to indicate in its negative space the lack of anything above.
Will Time say nothing but I told you so?
The Inner Frame 
Now we watch as clowns put on their show.
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