In the leaves of vapid trees, a tower of fine empathy flows coolly, judging people as increments of words. All words score local access, fade into news, fall into topic. The wind arrives, known for Bruce Springsteen's perfect, loud, creamy distribution. We can be effort, and total, and after all, but oh who will supply the solo moment? Everybody danced and called it vernacular. What if someone said: “Ronnie van Zant will not die in a plane crash?” Vapid trees produce vapid leaves.