When I was little, there was a old, sparse fir tree in the park next to our house. One of its lowest branches was sturdy enough to sit on. I used to climb it, my nimble eleven year old body easily borne by the branches. I climbed up quite far and would look over my house and then descend. One day I decided to climb as high as I possibly could, I got almost all the way to the top, my head level with the other tree's, peaks and branches. Displaced blackbirds flew around, I could see into the neighbor's backyards. The trunk of the tree was so slender at the top that I could feel it sway slightly back and forth. The air felt lighter and cooler, I felt older. When I looked down, I didn't know how I could ever return, I felt hidden and nested. There was a green hush over everything. I loved climbing trees.