In a distant country where the towns have improbable names, where the days move as slow as a river choked with a floating carpet of green, each paddle stroke slowed by a thick tangle of weeds, where little old ladies are quick as birds, where frogs hold council by moonlight, herons hunt by day, and raccoons at night, there lies hidden among shallow inlets and fellow tributaries, an old bearded willow tree. In the boughs and branches live an assortment of quaint creatures: the wise woodpecker (and his boisterous brood), saucy squirrel, and the humble honey-bee colony. Beneath this tree, taking root in the ground, is a small house built from green river reeds, prairie sod, and a unique ignorance in the art of domiciliary construction. Inside there is no clear period distinction. The coffee brewer sits on top of the counter lazily next to the wood stove, an odd assortment of cooking utensils hang from the exposed rafters, the light of both antiquated gas lamps and hanging electric chandelier mix into a sleepy off-white-off-yellow color. In the next room, the sound of soft, twangy metal strings can be heard teasing the warm sultry air, a lone voice whispering heartfelt words, and a quiet song that speaks to the People of the Deer.
