I walk slowly through the forest I have conjured up from within my mind. The evening sun's rays dimly filter through the thick canopy of leafs and branches, dappling the forest floor with small splotches of light. Looking to the sky through a minute break in the trees, I see the sky tinted red with the setting sun. A cricket chirps somewhere near me, its song echoing into the emptyness that I have been trying to avoid.

Wandering in a daze, I come to a small creek. Stepping gingerly into the water, as not to tromp onto a sharp stone, I wade across. The cold water that flows gently against my legs up to my knees is soothing in the unbearable heat. Having crossed the stream, I wonder vaguely where I am going. I had no conscious destination in mind, though my feet carry me to a secluded clearing.

In the middle of this clearing stands a lone weeping willow tree beside a pond full of lilly-pads. My favorite tree, I recall absently, staring at this beautiful work of nature. Its leaf-covered, vine-like braches barely touched the ground. The willow towered at least forty, if not fifty feet. I looked at it longingly and made my way to the tree through the waist-high grass swaying in the light breeze. Brushing away the branches gently, I place my hands on the trunk. It is cool to the touch, after being doused in shade from the sun. I play my fingers softly along the ridges of the trunk, tapping out random rhythms that come to mind.

I smile, not knowing exactly why. I sit down on the cooled ground, not caring if my clothes get dirtied, and lean against the willow's trunk for support. Taking a deep breath, I inhale the scents of nature: the crisp, clean air; the sweet nectar of honeysuckle; the smell of the willow tree's leafs. Eyelids drooping, I soon fall asleep, still very aware of the presence of my favorite tree.