“Peek-a-boo!” As Emma’s peal of laughter filled the sun-dappled air, her parents, Tracy and Eric, turned from the picnic table towards the sound of their daughter’s voice. Tracy gasped. Their daughter stood before an ancient, sun-kissed tree, slowly covering and uncovering her eyes playing the age-old game with— “What is that?” Eric asked, his voice
When he was still young and green, he liked to say, “I’m separate from you.” Her reply never varied. “That’s how it should be.” Even so, he suspected there was something beneath her quiet, calm patience, a secret that belied her answer. He thought it might have to do with the echoes of her he
“…nine, ten! Ready or not, here I come!” Janey laughed, and scanned the grove of trees for her friend. Emma covered her mouth to keep from laughing and crouched low to the ground behind the tree. She’d picked the tree because it wasn’t very cute—kind of like a slug with arms. She thought it might
“Look, Janey, that tree’s yawning,” Emma said, pointing to a tree at the end of the block. “What tree? Where?” Emma ran up to the tree and pointed up. “Right here, see?” Her friend squinted her eyes at the tree and tilted her head. “It’s just a tree with a hole in it, and a
Gliding. The raptor is gliding, wingtips of long, elegant wings curled. Majestic. The raptor perches. Slender bough plunges with its sudden weight… Songbirds, a quarter of the raptor’s size, appear from lower branches. They fly at the raptor, crying out, until the raptor leaves. But the songbirds are not done. Chase. Raptor glides elegantly. Songbirds
“Of course we need each other,” the little, crooked tree said, as its twisted branches began to mingle with its bigger neighbor. The bigger, well-formed tree thought about his companion’s bold statement. “I see now,” the bigger tree rustled with delight. “You are like an exclamation point at the end of my sentence. You add
If I were going to make a movie in the style of Hitchcock, she thought, I would include this silhouetted tree, with this brooding sky behind it.
What finally stopped Jodi’s momentum, was seeing a star hanging from a tree. She squeezed the hand brakes, slowing as she got closer. The star hung from the branch of a tree that had lost most of its leaves in the front yard of a small, white cottage. It was the same six-sided star that
Great bird stretched its wings. Trees shook with delight for miles.
Words—or more correctly, an intuition, the wordless feelings that we somehow translate into language— interrupted the normal flurry of her thoughts: Look up. And when she did, she smiled and gave a cry of delight. Bones. Branches. Lace. Pathway. Possibility. Look up.