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I grab for a knob,
hoisting myself
onto the first branch.
Rough bark crumbles
under my sneakers
as I search for a hold.

Odd-shaped leaves rustle
as branches shift
under my weight.
I pick pieces of wood
off my hands,
leaving indentations
in my skin to fade away.

Nestling into a worn crevice
I look out over the dark,
still water,
light from the evening sun
playing across its
ever-changing surface.

I lean up against
the massive oak,
one leg dangling
out over the lush, tall grass.
Silhouetted in the sky
birds burst from the trees.

Silence surrounds me.
I am alone
with my thoughts
as a friend.

I free my hand
and begin to write.

writing tree brooke gillman
Brooke Gillman, 13
Rolla, Missouri

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