Night Trees

3:23 am. Daughter is spread-eagled across my lap in post-nursing baby-bliss. I’m waiting ten minutes until I can safely transfer her into the crib without waking her. The Venetian blinds directly across from me are white and opaque. I blink at them, trying to keep my eyes open.

Suddenly, the light in our bathroom, that had been dimly lighting our bedroom, blinks out. (It’s on a timer). The white, opaque blinds transform into a black-and white, impressionist, leafy canvas. The shadows of the trees outside our window are thrown boldly onto the blinds. I blink again, awake now. I am reminded of the trees around us and now feel almost as though I am in a forest, instead of in my little square room in a rectangle house.

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