Line Of Fire

Day was cool and cloudy. After colllecting him at the creche, I took him for a drive: up, up, twisting and turning into the Dublin Mountains. I saw this treeline just before pulling up at Johnny Fox's, "the highest pub in Ireland."

I was struck by how these wind-shaped trees are so much like blown flames, from the match-head seed that sputtered and caught in the dark, to this conflagration of leaning green torchlight; how they look like the word for the wind's hiss, its snaky consonants: susurrus.