People kept materializing out of the mist—college students, spandex moms, and couples with dogs—everyone satisfied, exercised, a restful, celebratory mood dominating the parking lot; folks shaking hands, heading home to watch soaps operas and eat ham sandwiches, saying, “Bye, Trish!” “See you Monday, Tom!” Within minutes, they were gone.
As I looked up at one huge cottonwood tree, I saw the power of trees to lift tons of matter high into the air and give it shapes and skills. I looked at the ground and imagined the root system, two or three times the size of the canopy, tunneling in search of water and nutrients.
When I was a child, I had a beautiful book that fit perfectly in my hands. Its covers were squarish and addictively smooth, its binding a wide ribbon of coarse blue fabric, its pages thick and waxy. In simplified prose this book told child- length versions of various biblical tales.
Here is the slow thaw and the fox that creeps through the sweet new green, wet teeth, wet fur, sharp ears and snout, so pretty in its stealth, its silence. Here is the lullaby, cicada hum and truck horn, water dripping on cracked tile and the buzz of walkway lights, the fade and crackling swell at the bottom of the radio dial: voice and static and the tin roar of applause from the stands of a dusty arena inside that metal box on the stained and listing dresser.