A child grasps for a leaf on a sunlit red brick terrace. A young man flashes his Canon, and creates art. There are many such pieces: loose skin patched around green stick bones, earnest, tender eyes, that ache for the leaf so near those fingertips. The children agonize for that sunburned crispness. Artists splay their pictures across desktop backgrounds and youth help billboards. But what about the children who drag their nails against the image, gnash the unbent colors as they teethe? They scale the tree, molt their down, assault passerby with orange peels, and scream: "I claim this tree, and I am king."