In 2010, my husband and I spent two weeks in Montana. There
was much to love. Small towns. Larger-than-life scenery. Idyllic mountains.
Driving down a lonely highway, we spotted a patch of trees
set well below the road. We pulled down a rock-studded path. Trees stood on
both sides of the car, trunks white and striped with black scars. Shining gold
like paper-thin coins, round, yellow-green leaves on every branch, quivering and shimmying with
the wind.
It was magic.
Two nights ago, I came across pictures of our trip. And
there they were again: my dancing trees. Quaking Aspens.
Yesterday, in the middle of our buzzing work floor, a
coworker whispers, “Don’t think I’m crazy…but I fell in love with a tree.”
He’d been in Oregon.
I laugh. Raise my eyebrows and touch my fingers to the
keyboard, ready to Google what he tells me.
“Quaking Aspen,” he says.
And, there it is, right in front of my eyes. Not the image
of the trees, but something
too beautiful to call happenstance. Synchronicity. A small world.
The interconnectedness of all things.
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