Paper Bark
Quivers
When I was in first grade, living in McLean, Virginia, I had the biggest crush on Birch, who sat two desks away from mine in the second row. For some reason he wore little wrist sweatbands, maybe to emulate Bjorn Borg, the Swedish tennis champ of the time. We were partnered for the Horah dance at the holiday pagent, but he got sick and I had to dance with Ross instead.
Now when I look at the birch tree in my front yard, I'm aware of the rising sap, the way the Elm is stealing the sun away from it, and the spread of roots from the nearby bottlebrush. Yet it thrives, pushing out new leaves, allowing the bark to peel when need be.
