Weeping Willow

There are willows down by the creek. I hardly ever see them. I avoid going down by the creek near the house because the last time the boys and I went down there we found a deer carcass and shredded porno mags in an encampment strewn with beer cans.

People have written about the shady side of suburbia, the weepy side, the venal and banal behavior of the would-be petty gentry. This certainly exists.

On the other hand, although more rare, there are recluses, mostly sequestered at home, rarely venturing out to risk the rays of the sun, harsh elements, overexposure. A whispering veil of featherlight fingers, gathering downwards, keeping out the sun, would be welcome. Birds of prey roam open plains, skim parched meadows this time of year. A willow grove by the creek would be a shelter. If it weren't frequented by substance-abusing hobos, that is.

So which willow is preferable? One is the safe, well-clipped specimen tastefully placed on manicured lawn, sporting a swing or a bench, romantic and melancholy as it squeezes the living daylights out of your sewage tank. The other is the untamed version that resides among the underbrush with roots oozing shamelessly into the mud, home to the likes of the homeless. And putative witches. There's a scene in Nathaniel Hawthorne's The Scarlet Letter in which Hester and Dimsdale meet on such a shaded creek. Yes, there's still love on the forest floor, if reality weren't such a relentless bully.