Birches

When I was a child, my family lived on a farm. Down the road from us was a small wooded area, a grove of white birch trees. One hot summer day I trotted myself down the road to play. Along the edge of the road was powder-fine dust built up from passing cars; it felt good on my bare feet. The grove was cool in contrast and I played among the birches. The bark of the trees was so pure and white that the trees became illuminated, almost incandescent in the sunlight. The breeze was warm and perfumed and I danced with it. I was transformed. The grove became a heavenly playground. The trees became white angels, and I danced with them. I was filled with love and laughter; it was as if the trees and I came to know each other on a soul level.