Oak Tree

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.


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