Maurice Manning

Reading a Book in the Woods

The spindly trunks of two trees have twisted twice around each other. This is what I see when I look up from reading. I’ve read the page on the right then turned to the left-hand page and read. I’ve read the book all out of order, beginning in the middle. Now, by looking up, I know the book is reading me. And there I am in a middle chapter, whistling, and knocking the back of my hand against the motionless fruits of a hawthorn tree, an action that has no consequence unless the lifted hand and the branch left swaying after are symbolic. I could see it that way, but also see how simple it is, how very little is happening—no memory is leaking out, no evident signs of despair. There’s sort of a dot, dot, do at this point in the book, and I don’t think the ending offers much more. Maybe the sun goes down and someone whistles in the dark, or maybe it ends with pale light still visible above the trees and one has been changed, and walks further into the woods and farther than that.