The little peach tree in our front yard has burst into bloom. A flurry of soft pinky-white petals gently sprinkled across spindly toddler branches rising to reach at the sky.
If the tree were capable of singing, I imagine it would hum little jaunty tunes; spritely and quick like a playful and bouncing minuet.
If the tree could dance, it would stretch it's thin fingers to the heavens, twirling like a dizzy two-year old in the happy, springtime sun... making sloppy circles across the front yard as all the stately oaks and elms shook their limbs and tsk'ed their trunks.
Our tree does not care, does not see. Our tree is two.
And two is magicalroyalspinninghappy.
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