Deer Tree

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I stare at the tree with spots on its side, imprinted into the bark as though brushed with paint to mimic the soft, white spots of a deer. I watch this tree rock in the wind before the storm, turn darker under gathering cloud-light, its branches heavy with maple tree flowers hanging down like grapes. I hear the wind against the window, and remember what it was like, and the tears come down like ants against my skin. The tree is all I have to tether myself to the world. I watch it the way I have watched the moon, or the sea, or a mountain cutting up against the sky, all the while crying slow tears, sap raging against the bark.