Faint tendrils of mist rise slowly from the little lake.
Walking through the deep grass covered with dew makes my tennis shoes slurp
with each step. My brothers tag along behind me, still sleepy in spite of the
big breakfast. As my Father fires up the chain-saw, we three separate and look
for a tree to climb. The old apple orchard is so inviting. Scraggly branches offer
excellent perches for our adventurous bodies.
The sun warms us and dries the dew. We each stake out a
favorite tree and jump, first from the lowest branches into the soft, springy,
earthy-smelling leaf mold. So many feet thick, it’s as though we are landing on
a feather bed. I scramble higher, but tell my brothers to stop climbing.
They’re still too young to be the dare-devil character that I consider myself
to be.
The thrill of jumping from higher and higher vantage
points makes me want to never stop. I want to do this until the dappled shadows
slide across this gnarled old tree and make it hard to see, and my Father shuts
off his chain-saw.
