Displace
Arcua
 
Sap, ever-sweet, stains a palm.
Every branch clambered-atop produces the snapping of torn-apart adhesive.
The branches strain under the mispositioned weight, crackling as a warning.
They put their hand to their nose, smelling the sweet, earthy pine sap.
They press the spout of their bottle against their lips, drinking the chilled water within.
The cool, metallic flavor sparks dissonance against the simmering air.
They breathe deeply, refreshed at their slaked thirst.
A small-ways upward, they find their seat among the branches.
Their waist is snugly fit on their seat as they balance with a foot, pressure bound within their leg.
The sun peers through the evening air, illuminating their green shirt.
And there, they write their experiences here.
 
Displace.
 
Sap, ever-sweet, collects in the fur of a paw.
Every branch deftly ascended shakes the bristles.
The branches bark is shorn off from the talons of their hindpaws, flecks clacking to the ground.
They can smell the scent of the whole tree, warm-wood-aromas permeating the air.
They press their snout against their paw, daring to take a lick of the sap
which tastes fiercely bitter, causing them to recoil and attempt to expunge it.
They pant heavily, hanging their tongue out of their maw.
They wind into a seat among the branches, their tail dangling from a gap.
There they sit, coiling upon themselves to make comfort out of the impromptu throne.
The sun peers through the evening air, illuminating their pink-red fur coat.
 And there, they write their experiences here.