A section of dried vine. It was in turn a staff (which turned into a snake,) a plow, a lawn mower, a whale's tail. Lift it - slap it on the gold and orange ocean - so like the sound of water being broken. He sings a whale song with amazing mimicry.
We made our way from one trail marker dab of paint to another - like so many bindi on the trees' foreheads. He saw a face on one rotting trunk. "Look, dad!" Ridges on felled trees made by beavers. Rapunzel vines sinuously, sensually wrap around a beech tree.
Miles Standish, Powhatan, Plymouth fill his history slot. "Let's be Indians, dad!" He yells and his voice is clear, perfect. Like God is listening. God is listening.
The shu!crunsh of our steps, the lapping of the lake, the coos of birds. And only the slightest Doppler woosh of a car assuring me civilization is near.
Stooping over moss or a rock I see eternity; looking a mile back to where we started and I see a moment. The closer I look, the deeper I see. Moss jungle, bark canyon.
And to an 8-year old, a vine can be anything, if only you let him.
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