I was drawing the wind in her leaves.
Here she is, the tree I fell in love with, sitting on the earth a couple of feet about the high tide line, my back against a stone wall, looking up, heart open.
I was at the Filberg Festival, and the young man with the guitar on the stage had just given up the bottle, and he sang “Beeswing” by Richard Thompson.
She was a rare thing, fine as a bee’s wing… the only words in my head as I drew, as other musicians came and went, as the wind played in the tree, or the tree in the wind, so fine a breath of wind might blow her away…
Rare thing: a hundred-year-old child. Massive.
She tossed her hair.
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