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Is that the moon or a dinosaur’s egg lit from within, cradled, tickled by a pine bough? The eye of my camera captures the moment the breeze pushes the sharp needles perfectly into place.

I wonder about illusion and reality, myth and truth. Who’s to say which is which? Some folks who flirt with an eternity of fairies, say everything is illusion. Others stand with thick-soled boots, put their hands in the dirt, and say, see here, this is what is real.

I say it doesn’t matter, that a fairy’s wing and a farmer’s plow are just a breath apart. Tonight it’s the moon, tomorrow an egg, both resting in my nest.


I am taking pictures in my yard. The redbud in my neighbor’s yard looks so delicious I want to taste it, and the young dogwood in mine is teasing me with its buds. In the backyard, the wild cherry tree, over thirty feet high, is awash with blooms, like frosting in the sky. A breeze whispers and tiny white petals fly on sugary wings to the ground. It’s a day when it is impossible not to believe in fairies.

Ellen Hamilton