The Pine



The skeleton of a Virginia Pine, stripped of bark halfway up, stands tall outside my kitchen window.  Limbs once thick with needles are skinny bare now and broken from January’s wind and ice.  No more blending in, its pale features stand out.

I glance again, a difference today.  Pine cones dot the tree’s outstretched arms, cling to its brittle fingers.  I don’t remember them. The tree held and let go only raindrops yesterday.

I walk outside for a closer look.   The screen door slams, setting pinecones to flight, black seeds on the wind.

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