There is a young woman, wrong, there is not. She’s not yet an adult, but she’s not still a child. She’s in her teens. She wants to consider herself an adult, let it be that she’s accorded that. Begin again.
There is a young adult sitting beneath a tree under a grey-blue sky. There may be a seven-week-old foetus buried inside her, there may be not.
What’s to be said about the tree? Well, first, this is no wind-shook sapling. It’s immense, measured against the young adult, who’s no longer a child but only recently, quietly so. It’s fully grown, compared to the soft changeling who sits cross-legged on damp ground at dusk. It’s a lone, cold-blooded ash tree in the middle of a field. At the first autumnal winds, it’ll shed its leaves, easy, without thought, even while they’re still working green. But, for this evening, its soft new leaves glisten unhindered, twisted hopeful towards an inkling of faded sun. For now, its dark roots bury, disappearing into the earth.