(a poem by Cathy Gruman, 2009)
At the top of Opal Canyon, to the right and at the end of the street, was the field, where we rode horses, motorcycles and went hiking up the trail. Always passing the Peppertree, glancing as passed by. We would say, "There’s the Pepper Tree”, sort of like allegiance to a flag. It stood apart, like a big round tent of dark droopy leaves, hanging to the ground,providing a soft shady floor, a place to stop and rest. We usually didn't stop, though; it wasn’t that far into the walk, and we had places to go. Kids would mostly go there to make out, drink or smoke pot. I kissed a boy there, no two. Perhaps there would have been more, but kissing was all they got from me.
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