STORIES: Willowwood

Once upon a willow a small boy sat, unusual for the natural growth in limbs of such rarely afford good climbing.  But by chance, this particular willow tree when young had been struck by a fork of lightning that had split and changed its pattern and it adjusted to survive.  And so, in some way of sorts, had been the boy.

Just a thought, a start of story this early morning that breezed up from the backyard–without a willow tree in sight and yet an image came to mind and I’ve a photo of it somewhere of a willow tree that now stands dying in my father’s yard, but then in which I’m sitting as a young girl.  It is a weeping cherry actually, and the cloud of pink blooms hang invitingly as beaded curtains in an Eastern bedroom.

Where will it go?  The story wants to wander, as do I.

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