BIRCH, OAK, AND OTHER

Sometimes the rain, followed by the sun, but first the rain surprised us on the soft pathways carpeted thickly with old discarded brown pine needles. The tops of the trees protected us, like guardians of some sort. Out in the open fields afterwards there were little trees that looked tropical and the mosquitoes were lessened but did not go away. Out of sight is the farmer, and out of sight are the little animals, perhaps hidden in dens, sleeping the day away or watching the water and listening to the outside sounds cautiously. The valley top has a path that winds along the edge the way a shirt sleeve follows your arm. Distant, down there, are fallen trees, a beautiful chaos of a certain type, tuned somehow in its discordance. Some sun seems to come and reach down. Birch, Oak, and other. We make it short, and walk briskly, for there are places to go and things to do. The terrene earth is soon left behind, left waiting under and beside the verdant leaves and some feral shrubs. An impossibly large black bird of some sort alights on something in the distance, for of course it is his or her morning also, and maybe, for all we know, it is moreso it’s than ours.

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