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The Tree


There’s a tree on the hill.

Like a guardian it stands. A sentry and protector.

It must have been here for generations, I think. So massive are its branches, so prolific its fruit.

On its limbs, the sun just shimmers. Upon closer inspection, I see what look like gumdrops—crystalline gumdrops. Masses and masses of seedpods, encased in ice.

She sees them too. “Gifts to the future, pup,” she says with a fondness. I try to catch her meaning.

“Another tree to climb,” she continues. “A good place to build a nest—or a trunk on which to shed one’s antlers.”

A place to rest in shade next summer, I think. I love this tree too.


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