Tomorrow, after showering separately, we’ll dredge up the same old recriminations and regrets, the same talk-talk-talk about talking, our marriage a drab, uninteresting field off the highway – nothing to see. But today, we set aside our grievances for 90 minutes. We turn in our phones and pay attention to the woods, which our guide says will deepen our connection to the natural world. We watch the sun rappel up Vermont’s Green Mountains, squish mud beneath our boots, run our fingers over sycamore bark the texture of an elephant’s hide, listen to the haunting whistle of a hermit thrush, mindful of our breath, our transient, busy thoughts. We share each new discovery – monarch butterfly, chipmunk, thistles dozing in the sun – the ordinary turned astonishing. How could we not have noticed before? We’re dwarfed by the pines, sheltered by the blue bowl of the sky. Our fingers crisscross like shoelaces tied just right. Our hips nearly touch. We breathe in unison. The air is sweeter here, our words light as sparrows. When we come across the felled tree, we stare in horror. An elm. Destroyed in the last big storm, our guide explains. The tree lies on its side, as though dashed against the earth by a rageful giant. Trunk split in half. Leaves papery brown. Humongous, snaky roots pointing in the wrong direction. Dead. We study the gash wounds, wonder how something so big can be brought low. We’re about to keep walking when one of us – it doesn’t matter who although much later, we’ll try to recall — one of us points out slim green shoots hiding in the grass beneath the tree, whispers of life that might eventually become a sapling, growing in the shadow of the broken elm, struggling to find the sun.
Beth Sherman is the author of How to Get There from Here, a novella-in-flash (Ad Hoc Fiction). She has had more than 250 stories published in literary magazines. Her work is featured in Best Microfiction 2024 and 2026 and Best Small Fictions 2025. She can be reached @bsherm36.
Love "sheltered by the blue bowl of the sky".
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