Sometimes if I leave my bedroom window open, I return home at the end of the day to oak leaves strewn about my floor. When I sit at my writing desk, I can look over my shoulder and into the gold-ringed eyes of a black bird as it perches near-hidden amidst green leaves. A squirrel has dashed by on occasion. A blue jay sang to me once. I have had to snap a branch because I feared the wind would drive it through the glass. Under my breath I said all sorts of “I’m sorry.” You see, I live on the top floor of a rambling old Victorian house. And towering above that house is the oak tree. Sitting in my bedroom at my desk with the wind whistling through, and the oak tree doing its end of summer shimmy with acorns still green, I feel quite blessed to be where I am.
Words + Images 