On Sodom Pond

Postcards from rural Vermont

Under The Sycamore Tree

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I started the day here:July 31 029 Poor little rose stuck behind a fence, can’t get free.

 And ended up here: July 31 053under the grand and mighty sycamores on Mason Street around the corner from my office.

A woman came along as I was staring up, touching the almost unreal bark, thinking it looked like maps to somewhere, a new globe…

 Aren’t they grand, she said.

 Yes, I said.

 She admired the tree and she admired me admiring the tree. I admired her stopping to admire the tree and her overall admiration for tree bark.

 “If you Google it, oh my it’s amazing…”

 (I did. She’s right.)

 We stood in each other’s presence, in the presence of the tree. Two strangers in Cambridge. Me coming back from an eye doctor appointment, carrying an iced coffee. She….who knows?

She was a writer, too, a poet. We basked in the common thread. She was not surprised. “A person stopping to feel tree bark would have to be literary…”, she said as she wandered out of our life, the tree and me.

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