a passage arbor woven

Gravel potholes in the street seperate the block holding my window and doors from the one we spent much of our time playing on during days much younger. My mind, close connections run synonymous and deep between childhood, lighthearted movements, growth, and trees. They bear gifts in the most pure sense, bestowing without question or criteria, neither asking nor expecting compensation. Tall sentinals whisper watching (gently swaying) our movement below. Trading seasons for the next, they give so much each year. Shedding fancy and form until an essential skeleton, they repeat the ascent to glory over with no trace of weariness. In this simplicity they seem so wise.

Scattered houses, unused lots grass grown over, the block was spacious and open conducive to our nonsense games.

The trunks of two hazelnuts spaced several feet apart grow closer as they reach higher, twining finaly among coarse jagged leaves. Climbing the trunk of the one innermost to the center of the block on small nailed wood pieces, perhaps six occasionaly slipping, would lead to a small fort. Slender slats place fixed yet loose to form floor, weight bearing only of small children.

Far exact corner, a tree in scarlet leaning to purple, bearing plums when warm. Though absent a constructed fort, it was much better suited to lounging among branches than the hazelnuts. Wrapped in a cocoon dark leafy occasionaly scratched by stray braches, reaching plucking eating smooth skinned fruit. Whether ripe or still sour, the plums with large pits to suck on and scrape clean with teeth were delicious always (sometimes dusty from the near gravel road). Perhaps the origin of my sour fruit fixation.

Some summer afternoon next to this tree, a semi-truck parked and sat silent. The reason for stopping eluded us, it did not matter much. A flatbed trailer stacked high with hay bales bound in small taut strained string, tilting just dangerously to the right under a poorly aligned load. Large plastic red bat (classic style) ready, rocks to swing hit into the straw wall. Pulling loose pieces within our reach, the novelty faded we wandered away.

Large and full circumference, dense thick foliage laden with figs. Figs. Gross, shriveled shrunken headshrunkenhead green skin fruit, oozing foul slime when cut opened. Very gross tasting slime. Though docile and harmless, baseless resentment lingers over this tree in my memory.

Halfway between paired hazelnuts and the nasty fig maker, a huge corrugated culvert pipe appeared in the field. Deposited overnight surely at the hands of workmen, to vanish in a similar manner days later. Though one portion of the enormous curve looping side was partially flattened, it was still possible to get inside and walk roll it around the grass. A brief dirt bike inside experiment fails, back to feet and arms running up the side as it rotates under.

Blossoms would grow first, beautiful ones all over, apples then follow in place. Structure on a large scale, absent the intricate tangle of smaller fruit bearing companions around the block, most of the fruit beyond reach. We would throw fruit fallen to the ground, rotten and bug eaten, at the apples remaining on the tree. Careful aim and patience would knock down several, juicy and sweet. Those littering the ground decomposing, bees would hover from one to another, none ever stung us.

The most elegant, an tall pillar crown graced with soft thin transluscent leaves in perfect shape. Bark spongy soft and interesting, it was cut down as it neared perfection. Cottonwoods grow fast, yielding wood which is not dense or strong enough for the height they attain so quickly.

The university slowly bought all that land. Tore all the houses from the ground, cut all those trees down.

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