Against the dim September sun, he tilts slightly as if resting on his laurels. The formidable Dutch elm stands guard outside the brownstone, a thousand more stories wrapped in its boughs. But below the surface, wrapped around pipes and sheltering rabbit holes, its roots have stopped to grow.
She stands at her window watching its leaves turn, too quickly, she thinks. But on the prairies, her home, seasons are best left unpredicted. Red leaves remain for but a day or two, and this year, she swears she will not miss those multifarious fall days. She is grateful for her tree, its shade and its greens, and the way it will shine its white etchings on first snow day, already visible in her mind’s eye.