by David Holzel

I planted an elm seedling, two feet high at most, hugged it to the school wall so we wouldn’t trample it playing soccer. In a city whose elms had all died away, mine was safe. And blossoming perennially, it would surely survive its planter. But man is more like a tree in the field than I knew. Our 31st annual reunion: a stump like a milking stool. For me, still summer.


David Holzel does his writing in Maryland. You can read him here and here. He wonders if he's really going to follow David Hasselhoff on the list of authors.