Fall

"She ready to go?" he asked, putting his phone into his pocket. "She's in the yard, telling the trees about fall," she replied, sitting down at the table. "Part of the explanation is a kind of interpretive dance." "Awwwww," he said, pausing. "I used to speak fluent tree," she said then, not moving. "I used to know where you could cross the little stream on a fallen tree or rocks that weren't too slippery. I used to collect leaves and write secret notes on them." "I can skip stones," he shared. "My Uncle Phil taught me." "I held tiny solemn funerals for little creatures that I found - wildflower garlands, the whole bit," she continued. "I read tracks - learned the prints by heart from books," he added, sitting down across from her. I'd find the burrows and dens and protect them." Outside, their daughter was explaining to an entranced forest that tree nakedness was a winter thing, but was nothing to be ashamed of (because everyone has a body and everybody poops). "We get the house ready and rent it out," she spoke softly into her lap, "and then we resign." "We convert the van, pack it, and go," he whispered. "Before it's too late," she said, closing her eyes. Wild giggles came from the back porch, where someone had taken off her shoes.