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  • Writer's pictureIan McCluskey


Moss might know what it means to pick a tree in the forest and stay, slowly creeping around the trunk like a warm green shawl for the grey bark.

And maybe the old tree appreciates this, as it is, after all, a grandfather, or grandmother.

And maybe grandparent tree says, “Thank you, that wind that whips up from the ridge is brisk; the dew that sets to frost each morning a little chilly.”

Maybe grandparent tree loves all the little birds in its boughs but finds them chatty, and eventually welcomes the break at night. “Thank you,” old tree says to moss, “you are so silent, so calm.”

“You’re welcome,” says moss.

“When this wind picks up and I groan and sway, don’t you worry I will topple over?” asks old tree.

“No,” says moss. “If you fall, I will cover you still. I will blanket you until you sleep forever in soil. I will be the first to welcome your young saplings when they sprout.”

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