Friday, February 6, 2009
Looking at the trees in my garden, knowing that I would have climbed them
in childhood. I was a tree climber, see? Not quite as fast as our later real monkeys, Mofu and Bigo, but fast. I knew just where to hit the trunk with my foot and then up into the first y cradle of branches. I would hit each familiar hold with speed and then jump onto the roof, soft as a cat, so as not to be heard. I hid up there, in the tree or on the roof, unmoving to watch the neighborhood or tree life go by or to read books. I stared at clouds and watched them form horses that turned into... Sign in
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