It’s summer. Dry crunchy oak leaves on the ground. Providing protection for those that live in this intense environment. As we walk through the leaves. Looking up into the tree for galls. Not to take what the tree needs. But for the possibility that what we see in the tree might be below for me to take. On the ground. No, not this time. It reminds me of growing up. Running around under the oaks. Feeling the galls crunching under my feet. Throwing them at my brother. I didn’t have a name for them at the time. But it didn’t matter. And in a way, still doesn’t.