somebody’s watching me….

somebody's watching me....

{Birch trees look quite stunning at night, especially in winter when there is little left to rival their stark whiteness and fine black accents. That said, birch bark has an unsettling way of watching you, with dark scars like eyes peeking out from the pattern. I saw, or was seen by, many white birches while I was growing up in a part of town that was and is essentially a tenuously-reclaimed bog. Ironically, though, I didn’t see them outside my home, which was actually named after their redder cousins — attempted plantings of the would-be icons apparently died successively and reliably, perhaps due to the equally-reliable flooding the confused little patch of land sustained every spring. They had to settle for painting trees on the sign eventually, I believe. No great loss, since the birch catkins carpeting the parking lot and its attendant vehicles did little to enhance the aesthetics of the place. Nevertheless, it was a good place, and I think back on it fondly; I remember a year when the plowed snow was so high I could pick the topmost branch from the crab apples by the window. There are really no trees here, not anymore; they were aging and weak, and storms took them piece by piece until the day came when the view from my window was obstructed no more. I don’t have a special love of trees in general, but I have a vague sensation that there should always be a tree outside one’s bedroom window. That’s just how it’s done. I’m moving this year, and I think I’ll have to add that to the list of requirements for a new place….}


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