a vignette
A mother and daughter were sitting on a picnic blanket. The sky was clear, and apples swung in the breeze. Smiling, the mother watched as her daughter traced patterns in the grass. “You know, trees can feel people’s footsteps,” the mother said. The girl stopped and glanced around. Her mind flitted to a few nights ago, when she’d snuck out of bed and peeked into the living room. Her mother was asleep, bathed in the television glow. On the screen, monstrous oaks were rising from the ground and kidnapping tiny men with green capes. Suddenly, one of the oaks roared, and the little girl ran back to her room and hid under the covers. The trees in this orchard didn’t seem like monsters, but there was no way to know for sure.
The mother saw her daughter’s worried expression and laughed. “Don’t be afraid. Footsteps are how the trees know that they have company.” The girl settled slightly, though her eyes remained wide. She patted the ground softly, so the trees would know that they were there.