The Dogwood Tree

There are too many leaves covering the ground. Anya couldn't find her book - an aged copy of I Know Why the Caged Bird Sing by Maya Angelou. Among the leaves are flower petals assisting in this game of nature's hide-and-seek.

"We're hungry," her stomach said softly, but she ignored the lunch she packed on the passenger's seat to keep searching for the book. I can always buy another one, she thought.

Anya's hands and legs were the first to acknowledge the unseasonably crisp winds for August. She kept looking from side-to-side face distorted and her medium-sized dark brown afro blowing in opposite directions. "Anya," a voice called out. She turned towards the sound.

"I thought that was you. Here's your book," her friend said.

"Thanks," Anya hugged him. She noticed some hands having at her by a dogwood tree. "I didn't even notice y'all," she added.

She walked with him over to the group book in hand.

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