Once upon a willow a small boy sat, unusual for the natural growth in limbs of such rarely afford good climbing. But by chance, this particular willow tree when young had been struck by a fork of lightning that had split and changed its pattern and it adjusted to survive. And so, in some way of sorts, had been the boy.
Just a thought, a start of story this early morning that breezed up from the backyard–without a willow tree in sight and yet an image came to mind and I’ve a photo of it somewhere of a willow tree that now stands dying in my father’s yard, but then in which I’m sitting as a young girl. It is a weeping cherry actually, and the cloud of pink blooms hang invitingly as beaded curtains in an Eastern bedroom.
Where will it go? The story wants to wander, as do I.
The Lost Children: A Charity Anthology