Looking at Tree Roots



I think about my days living on Bridge Street and the trees, seeming ancient, that caused in me a sense of being small.  I remember nights when the wind would blow off of Quinte Bay and summer storms were gathering. I would open my window and listen to the trees move.  It was remarkable in every way, that they could move at all, given their size.  Their arms were black shadows in the night, lashing one direction and then whipping back, again and again.  Such rootedness must be required.  I am in awe.

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