By D.R. Ross
This season reminds me of the oak tree that grew in my back yard before it came down with root rot and sprouted fungus. All that’s left now is a sawdust puddle where its trunk supported limbs I swung on like a Tom Boy Tarzan. (Jane was never my role model.) I still smell the incense of leaves composting where they landed, even though I was thrown to the ground on that same spot by some ape man with BO who reeked like a silverback in heat. I kicked that sapling so hard in his acorns that he’ll never germinate again.
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