My backyard is all hill. At the bottom of the hill is my house, and the porch connected to it, which is decorated with a blue picnic table, white rocking chairs, and my younger sister’s flower garden. Beside the porch is a big, black grill that smells like burgers and hot dogs.
Around the porch the ground is flat, but it rises steeply up towards the plateau at the top, where a table and two yellow chairs sit.
In the middle of the yard, is a stump. I wonder what kind of tree it used to be. How tall was it? Were the branches low enough to climb? Even if they weren’t particularly low, I could have stood on a higher part of the hill and leaned over to grab a branch, then pulled myself over into the tree. And if there were other branches near it, I would stand on the first branch, and grab onto the next, climbing higher and higher.
When I reach the top of the tree, I’d find a comfortable sitting position on the rough branches that threaten to scratch my legs. I’d look out and see what there is to see, because why not? I would see red-brick houses for a few miles, and maybe catch a glimpse of the colorful nature trail nearby. I’d see schools, stadiums, churches, and the miniature mall just five minutes from my house. Maybe I’d even see all the way to D.C., the nearby capital, though that is unlikely, with all the traffic leading up to it.
Eventually, I’d climb back down. I’d hide from the glaring sun in the shade the would-be tree provides and listen to the birds chirping, the neighbor’s dog barking, and the sirens wailing.
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