aFTER THE FLOOD she consulted with her taproot, who said, Not yet, we will continue to hold the land. And she sent thinner roots out shallow. Spread wider so she wouldn’t fall. She gave the fungus their message to carry. Reddened her veins to accept the salt. After the flood. Between floods.
Between floods her hands became sunshades and fans, green and cool. Better than flags, they beckoned thirstful pilgrims.
She knew what every tree knows from staying still and studying the sun. The refuge of her shade was of the moment, ever changing. And so she welcomed every erstwhile refugee with what she had. Her arms grew variably wider or narrower through the days. But she always kept them open. No one could mistake them for guns.
And maybe this was how she taught the people patience while everything was changing. Maybe this was how she trained her stressed-out symbionts to just let her ideas
