It stands out in the yard beneath an autumnal light glowing gold like its leaves.
That’s its camouflage and its attraction.
What child is able to resist the swaying seat of the swing hanging from its drooping branches? What child would not want to feel the air rush past their face, the exhilaration of the glide before plummeting back to Earth only to arc up again?
But they don’t know it’s alive in a way that other trees aren’t.
It doesn’t seek rain, but something else. Something more savage.
Many have come to the tree and none have left its embrace.
For the bristling leaves and reaching branches are its arms.
And the swing is its wagging tongue.