Count to Ten

Oak trees swaying on a soft wind disguise themselves as birches today. Yesterday’s snow sticks like spray paint, trails of white flypaper hang in uneven strips from graying bark. They remind me of a spring day long ago, when aggravated; I sawed off a birch branch that blocked the view as we backed out of our driveway.

For one stunned moment I gaped as sap rained from the gash, a geyser of clear blood spurting from an amputated limb. As liquid pulsed from the open vein, I ran up the hill to the house, squeezing eyes tight to the unexpected wound my impatience had inflicted.