Trees I Have Known

I loved those trees, limbs draped in plump wild grapes, bursting with flavor on my tongue, while juice stained my fingers. Tall cottonwoods shadowed the creek where we splashed—Sis, brother, and I—and a giant sycamore shaded Granddad's spring. We slaked our thirst from the granite dipper hung on a nail he'd hammered into its trunk at kid level. We watched water belch like corn, rattling a popper lid, and ripple over rocks in the streambed, where minnows and crawfish hid from prying fingers. Hawk-eyed, we scouted gnarled branches in the orchard for ripening fruit, luscious and tangy, spurting juice to drip off elbows. Hazelnut bushes flourished by the back fence; black walnut trees shaded Grandmother's back porch. Our uncles helped burst crack-jaw shells with hand-held rocks on the stone slabs stretching toward the gate. I do not envy the children whose play-field offers brick and concrete, severe and naked, whose only fruit blows down alleys and into streets, as the refuse of city dwelling.