I stand in the shadow that this great tree once cast. A cooling ghost protecting me from the sun’s relentless glare. In its shade flowers abound, a mat of woven runners, stems, and leaves splashed Pollock-like with reds, blues, violets, and yellows.

Along the path wild strawberries. The foot prints of a mountain cat. They look fresh, both the strawberries and the prints. I crouch animal-like, eyes darting as I pick greedily and savor their sweetness. Then I move on leaving this broken tree, the spoor, and the berries for the ashen plain below.