On 20th between Madison and Ferry a line of municipal maples binds the community to an orderly, serviceable beauty. Platforms from which our sparrows and starlings might decorate our domestic sedans, perhaps these trees serve most to stimulate the car wash economy. Today, they remind me: unsatisfied with workaday species, my parents nailed oranges to a post to attract the exotic Oriole. When the birds arrived, I wondered if they’d flown all the way from Baltimore, which in turn evoked a hotel, gables lined with black and tangerine, posh clientele spackled by the vagaries of Maryland living. By nine I could sigh, climb our single red maple, which I imagined a national landmark. Child of movies, I could see the tree even at night as a kind of beacon, a singularity. White sheen on the leaves’ pitchy gloss, bodily. And I too would learn to feel glazed as any creature accumulating light cast from stars, hidden in a federation of equivalent times, distant trains carrying sugar, coal, whole families beyond deserts, imposing ranges, shimmering coastlines said to define the spirit of a people. Far from the station, the pinpoint aurora, a line of municipal maples bears its charge. Copyright @ 2014 by William Stobb. Used with permission of the author. |
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