The Laughing Trees

Every night at eight, ever since the world ran out of humor, the trees begin laughing.
Oh, it's easy to miss the sound.
Laughter doesn't come naturally to anyone, or anything, anymore.
It's not a loud guffaw or high pitched giggle.
More of a gentle, whispering chuckle.
Or even like the kind of sigh we used to make after a big long laugh,
like after watching Chaplin eating his own boot in 'The Gold Rush."
Somehow our suppressed and supposedly extinct laughter has sunk into the water table, and the trees have drunk it up.
Now, every night at eight, if you listen real close, and are near
a bunch of trees,
you will hear them begin to titter and snicker,
and then break out into warm chuckles.
What are they laughing at?
Maybe us.
Maybe themselves.
Maybe nothing in particular.
It lasts for about fifteen minutes,
then gradually fades away
as if someone were slowly 
turning off a water tap
until there is just a drip.
And then nothing,
and the Night is silent and meaningless again.