Tree Climbing

by Jodi Hibbard

Looking up I see a canopy of leaves unscathed by fall's sudden arrival. It is the last green tree in the yard-- the last glimpse of summer. It is calling me.

A strong branch, smooth with the maples bark, looms just over my head. I can reach it if I jump. The perfect climbing tee. The bark is young, soft, and easy on the hands. The leaves become translucent as the morning sun shines through.

The toes of my shoes make crumbling sounds as they drag against the sturdy trunk-- my arms pulling me ever upward. The ground is only feet away, but already the tree is pouring life in through my skin, caressing my hair with late-budding sprigs as I escalate.

The smell of sweet moisture from the shimmering leaves fills my nostrils with scented tendrils. They release the dew they are holding as I knock them aside with eager head and shoulders. Chills and goose bumps creep down my neck, back, and arms as the cold droplets tremble down my spine.

The wind blows. I am soaring. The leaves are my wings, outstretched and ruffling as I am carried from the earth. I am free. I refuse to look down at the cold earth where I am hostage to gravity. The wind licks my face.

Pure, untainted happiness swells in my fast-pounding heart. And then, in the last gust of wind, a single red leaf from my shady green wings drops into my lap. It is fall.