The forum was filled with the bustle of bodies and breathing, the constant din of civilization. The stoic Roman pines watched the hive of movement. One by one, leaves struck with gold and red fell to the stone paved ground, then to be trampled by the sandals of the masses. To the side of the square sat the base of a cliff, leading up to a small burbling waterfall that sat high above. A few men with togas laced with gold and each surrounded by a few more, none of them dressed so ornately, sat watching. Eating. Reclining.

The small, effervescent waterfall led into a pool where one man was washing his face and hands. It partially blocked out the noise of the crowd, but not entirely. 

The trees noticed the commotion and blew long, slow sighs of wind and dew. It was naught but a blur to them, a fevered commotion as of insects, or how the sun watches asteroid fly across its infinite plane. Soon, to them at least, the forum would empty and the sky would turn dark, and the stars would come out – tiny needles of light in the night sky – and then there would be peace, and quiet. And peace.

They longed for that time, but for the time being – a short time being, but nevertheless – it was not the case. They watched on as a butcher bought a lamb, estimating its value in his head. They watched as an artisan desperately hawked his wares, to no avail. A farmer carted piles of hay into town, seeking to sell the hay and the mules. A poor mother brought her two children past shops of silks and spices, pausing only for a moment to stare forlornly at what could be not hers. 

It grew louder and louder every year, month, day, that din of civilization. And yet still they watched.

They watched. They saw.  And they waited for that peaceful dark.