My best friend Berto taught me the value of going outside and singing to the trees.

Berto was kicked not quite to death by some gang-bangers, and he does not remember how close we were. He does not remember me at all, to be honest.

We once got in a fist-fight at a party, mad violence, then ten minutes later laughing and hugging.

But I still go outside sometimes, down in the yard, or up on the second-floor deck, and sing to the trees.

They never say, exactly, but I think they like it.