68°

At the edge of the shoreline

A tree leans sixty-eight degrees

Over the water

Facing the sun

For half a day

Why she chose that half

I will never know

She sits uncomfortably

Between three rocks

And she smiles

Lifts her branches to the clouds

Ever crooked

Ever green

Watching her reflection

Through the calm ripples

And oar-made tornadoes

Bent over to accommodate the

Next generation of tree climbers

And fort builders

Tire swingers

And height-fearing bungee jumpers

Dropping pine needles

In exchange for longevity

As she soaks up the

Mosquito-breeding fresh water

By the shoreline

Facing the sun

For half a day

And only the better half

At sixty-eight degrees