WRESTLING SYCAMORES 



THE sycamores have bared their 

 arms for the wrestle with the winter 

 wind. There is nothing cowardly 

 about them. They throw off their 

 jackets at the first hint of a winter 

 battle. From my window I can see 

 them down by the water, bending 

 and straining every fiber as they 

 catch the wind and hurl it back, 

 breathless, and moaning with its pain. 

 I have heard it said that the trees 

 sigh in the wind. Not a bit of it. 

 The wind that struggles with the tree 

 tops sighs. When it is thrown back, 

 moaning, the sycamores gather them- 

 selves and await the new attack. 

 All the night through, while I am 



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