Tonight she is tall enough to see the green light surrounding him fade into a silver oval to pluck from the fastened sky. Overripe, his calloused rind should peel away from his flesh, so all that is left is him, camphor odor and octagon-sacs of sap, broken to consume. A creosote continues to flower in winter when others fold into themselves like bat wings. The desert starts here, with the lights of some distant city too far away that they are mistaken for fixed stars. He grows as she approaches, eddying to a dissolve, returning to green light.