Because they belong to the genus thunder
Trees grow still when their patriarch
Delivers his sign, the livid spark,
And comes himself with a rumble and mutter,

Reminding them of their dignity.
Boom! He empties a bucket of wet
Across their shoulders, but they submit
Till he huffs away. So they are free

With a stirring of limbs to echo him,
A confab of whispers, a hushing and mumming,
Till time comes round again for the thrumming
Harumph of the father to quiet them.