In the front yard there are three big white pines, older than any-
thing in the neighborhood except the stones. Magnificent trees that
toss their heads in the wind like the spirited black horses of a troika.
It’s hard to know what to do, tall dark trees on the south side of the
house, an unfortunate location, blocking the winter sun. Dark and
damp. Moss grows on the roof, the porch timbers rot and surely
the roots have reached the old bluestone foundation. At night, in
the wind, a tree could stumble and fall killing us in our beds. The
needles fall year after year making an acid soil where no grass grows
We rake the fallen debris, nothing to be done, we stand around with
sticks in our hands. Wonderful trees.
by Louis Jenkins