Mother Tree
On a windy day, I went to my back yard to visit Mother tree. I go to her often to escape from the worries of the world. When I got closer, the pale green leaves whipped around in the wind and the insects rocketed about my head in a particularly fierce gust. Settling down beneath the scratchy brown bark, I caught a glimpse of the scarlet plumage of a Cardinal flying over the new tan fence, here today, gone tomorrow. As the day progressed, I studied the sunshine glinting through the leaves - the light looked like a bunch of thin spider-webby stuff but still as solid as gold. The sunbeams looked remarkably like a bunch of thick sweet honey trickling gracefully down in streams. A blast of wind, like a bucket of water over my head, knocked me roughly back into reality. I was now thankful for my warm over-jacket, though it itched horribly and smelled faintly of detergent. I hugged the furry hoodie closer to my body as I idly watched the weeds sway in the breeze, and with them, swayed (intentionally or not) a wasp. I closed my eyes and sniffed the air, it tasted faintly of rough new wood, sweet green grass, heavy warm newly laid down dirt and the faintest trace of exhaust gas. I looked up again at the sun and noted how far it had moved since I had last looked at it. Feeling the cold metal of the chair I was sitting on told me I had been here for a long time. As I left, I felt one thing more, the peace and quiet presence of Mother Tree.
