My hands grasp the branches, coarse bark scratching my hands. The tree is young, like me, branches still pliable over time. I hoist myself to the lowest branch, book sandwiched between my arm and my side. As I slide into my special space, I breathe in fall. The leaves on this Live Oak will remain green through the winter, while the acorns grow with hopes of new life. The tree envelops me in a leafy embrace as I sit on my branch-seat. Alone, I am free in the carefully-manicured landscape of suburban nature.