The Willow

"I frequently tramped eight or ten miles through the deepest snow to keep an appointment with a beech-tree, or a yellow birch, or an old acquaintance among the pines."-  Henry David Thoreau,  1817 - 1862  

In my backyard there is an ancient willow. Its branches are like a huge aging dancer-still somewhat graceful, but sad somehow and fragile. I have a line around its trunk that stretches to a smaller maple. Clothes hang on the line and blow in the breeze. During the hurricane in August, a few branches broke off, but the tree stayed defiant, eager to prove its tenacity, shedding the dead branches like a snake shedding skin. 
The willow has a large hole at the top-created one summer day by a freak hail storm. The branch that came down was large enough to require a chainsaw to cut it down so it could be removed. The moon often fits perfectly in that space.