Death fells the three sweet gum trees across the street from the park. Limb by limb they crash, the chainsaw sounds like the giving end of a righteous argument, angry and justified. The trees’ offense? Buckling the sidewalk, dropping big round seed pods, and hosting birds that subsequently crap all over cars parked in the shade. So decapitation, into the grist, into the chipper, their sap sticky-sweet on the rough hands of pinch-faced men wearing heavy coats and black boots.