Cul-de-sac of Trees

He settles in a cul-de-sac of trees.
Birds like small novelties, flicker
in and out of his vision their singing
always in the distance.
The sun slips into
orange-yellow phase,
colors enrich. He bathes
in the place he is, his body
filling in details, projecting conclusions to his eyes.

How cold it would be
when sunlight devolves
into its true meaningless nature.
The birds around see sunlight
so differently. The insects
who chomp on each other
and grow babies inside each other,
the parasites with their unimaginable lives,
the small things who spend lives in rock cracks
on bubbling fissures under the sea,
find their loves there
eat their dinners not
on tiny dining room tables or
unimaginable restaurants
in cold and heat without
bathing suits, winter coats.

Why do they live those lives?
Why does he live his?