Leslie Feist in a Cherry Tree

I've learned to look up. There's an entire vista awaiting when one tilts her chin about 50 degrees. Especially in the woods. This simple act of tilting opens the spectre and glory of the canopy. I know a young woman who spent practically all of her ambling time with her eyes gazing groundward, searching for fascinating fungi. And she found a full patch. Later that day, she returned to the hollow-head and ascended through the deep sex of the woods, rising to the clitoral pinnacle of the vulvic holler, whereupon her eyes rolled upward in their sockets and her chin floated skyward into the canopy, and she realized at that moment that she had entered a spidery sky hence denied. It was just past mid-summer just south of the emerging half moon, so she sat there, sitting, angular and propped against a beech tree, soaking and scratching the back of her head against its skinny sheathing, whereupon tempanic vibrations alerted her eyes to the east and there she was. Sitting in the crotch of a crooked cherry tree, watching our young woman watching her, through rolling time, then watching her in return.