The Wild Crescent Moon Tree

The Wild Crescent Moon Tree
by Dylan Bowerman (@beachdyl)

I live in Florida. It's hot, and it's humid. I came from the grand state of Virginia, where it had a reasonable humidity and something amazing: seasons. There was a summer full of heat and sheepishly walking along the street, avoiding the blacktop so your feet didn't combust. There was a winter that had frost and the exciting promise of a possible snow day, just to have a makeup day later in the year. There was a fall where the yards looked gloriously cluttered and I spent twice as much time mowing the lawn so the leaves would disperse evenly. There was a spring during which the bushes outside my house would become the most glorious flower-bearing plants the neighborhood had ever seen. In Florida, we have frizzy hair and 80 degree Christmases. Now, I live on NW 110th Drive. What does that convey? Cities and somebody not creative enough to come up with a name. In Virginia beach (rated the 8th best city in the United States (7 positions too low, in my opinion)), I lived on Wild Oak Crescent. That conveys a vision of perfectly sparced oak trees, the leaves of which letting through the perfect amount of warming rays of sun, with the delicious smell of deciduous trees that can be replicated by nothing else. As goes the local legend of the Three Oaks area, after which my favorite Elementary School was named. When my parents purchased our house, it had the most beautiful willow tree that bathed the buildings in the glory of its shade, protecting the cars in our driveway from the sun's threats. Unfortunately, the termites won that battle and brute forced the willow tree into oblivion, providing me with a grand view of the NASA rocket launches. Even in its death, the willow tree was still looking out for us. Alas, I reside in Florida. Where there are no willow trees. Just swamps and palm fronds. And I look out the window at the things that could be.