The leaves are a canopy of yellow above her and brown around her.
The deep red of her sweater is all that
distinguishes her from the trunk.
There is a small book in her hands with a worn cover.
All the noise around her has no affect on the tranquility
of her position or her attention to her story.
The only movement is that of the escaped strand of hair
on her cheek shivering in the fall breeze.
The girl under the tree sits, absorbed in the pages,
finding escape, sollice.
Look closely, observe the small movement of her lips
mouthing the words as she reads.
Passersby do not give her a second glance,
the girl oblivious to the world, nor should they.
She is happy this way, invisible to the world from which she escapes.
She fiddles with her necklace and smiles to herself.
I live great adventures in these pages and all they see is a girl.
I am just a girl sitting under a tree.
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