Cassia fistula. An inhabitant of paradise, rising only where rain falls. Licorice pulp case seeds in long pods. A sweet bitterness that licks teeth and sucks cheeks. Petals blossom in flaxen showers; the bathed body glows dark amber.

This tree begins where it all ends. The base sleeps in perpetual autumn: yellowed and browned and half sunken through the ground. The tree — barren, riddled with decay, carved out by termites — bends over to kiss the ground. Crumbs of bark set the bed for its grave, spreading out and disappearing under blankets of moss. Monkey cups and sassafras and chinquapins stand, expressionless, and listen to the wind’s lullaby.

Shattered branches rise, uncurling to claw at the waking sun. Sticks taper into a dense system of veins that compress into capillaries cut by abscission scars. Rot washes away as day becomes night then day again. From trickle to downpour, leaf and petal rain upward from beneath soil. They pool into a dense canopy. These leaves, once scattered and brittle, bounce back into life. Hanging golden spires fall from the foliage, showered in sunlight, the only warm color in an ocean of emerald and wood.

Colonies of termites fade as unwinding hours fill the holes carved beneath bark. The surrounding forest sheds its years. Buds tighten into blossoms and fold back into buds. Leaves curl and condense; branches follow suit. Sun bears collect their footprints as they retrace their steps. Hornbills deliver fruit to brush, bugs to soil, bugs that sink to replace the droplets collected by passing clouds. Nearby, trees appear paler than before the rain. Elsewhere, thousands of spiders converge and bundle into a silk sphere. A river flows up the valley, carrying songs from the sea. It braids cobbled stone into a scarf reflecting a patchwork sky. The current returns earth to the land, bridging the gap between eroded banks. Creatures enter wet and leave dry. They rest their lips on water to become parched. It won’t be long before the mountain dries, water stops flowing, and the earth thirsts.

The noises of a distant orangutan changes tune with age, from a flat echoed vibrato at death to a sharp squeaky pitch at birth. Outside of time’s constraints, they all sound the same: silent.

Time erases the perennial lines etched in pith. The tree forgets the stories written on its growth rings, stories of thick floods and thin droughts, and dark scars from fires that taint years of memory. Cambium absorbs xylem and phloem. Roots retract roots as water returns deep beneath the surface. Buds tighten into blossoms and fold back into buds. An endless cycle that persists until the first germination, existing regardless of any presence to bear witness. This tree loses its spent time unnoticed, where frogs breathe through skin and leopard cubs learn to hunt.

Cassia fistula, golden shower, purging cassia, Indian laburnum. Blooming blonde hues, fruiting contradicting flavors, growing and dying but never dying. They live until they cease —

Years and years and the surrounding cloud forest sinks into the moss, dissolving into fresh soil. Soot and rubble rises to displace it. Leaf and petal wilt; each sear to yellow with rigid brown outlines. Weeds lie charred, discarded on the floor. Graves are marked by charcoal stumps.

A setting western sun is met by the mourning song of a lone bird. A distinct aria rings out as the horizon snuffs out all light. The world falls into nothingness as embers begin to smolder.

Water soars as the freshly dead forest blares with bright new life. A serenade of crackling roars in the rhythmic pounding of water. Flames whip the air. Grassy kindling sizzles green. Through an orchestra of fire, the forest burns with floral colors and smoke. Snaps and growls fill the warm black sky. Beneath this, a light drumming, a pattering pitter that develops as the inferno moves eastward, as raindrops flash up and down — thrumming and tapping — as they dive through air and the water cures the leafage back to a refined jade. A cymbal crashes, and the world flashes olive with lightning.

No applause follows the crescendos. A chorus of whining chicks picks up after the fading drums, mouths to the sky, a plea for their mother to return home.

The chicks go silent as the ground dries. The symphony ends.

Many days, many nights, many deaths, many lives. The tree fades into its youth. More rains rise, falling upward until the tree finally ages into a sapling. It tucks itself under mossy covers, tears away from mycelium, and sinks into its shell as other lives float in. The seed lies in the earth. The trickling river and mosquitoes produce an impenetrable white noise. The sea is calm and the sky is autumn. Emerald and wood, stagnant. The world goes silent. With that, the song can finally begin.