Flaking snakeskin bark, she climbs the pines and forgets her age. If she can make it to the top, where the trunk bows with each small breeze, she will never have to go back. If she can grip pine cones in her palm and not grimace; if the cone snaps from the tree, she will have won strength. If she can still feel the caress and stab of the needles through bark-worn skin, she will know humility. She climbs branches without pause, eager for a treeline she knows she can never safely achieve. But still she climbs, anticipating the lurch.