We walk to the island. The children take turns pulling.

Akiva does not need to drink much water in winter: he eats the snowballs from his fleece mittens. When I notice his once-white chewing gum has become pink, I realize he has side-stepped the food-chain of microplastics consumption assumed in oceanic plastics pollution studies and gone directly to the source. I wonder how many thousands of plastic microfibers he has consumed on this walk. I feel helpless.

At the island, the tire swing, high above the river in summer, hangs low above the snow.

Iris steps on—

—swing!

Akiva, shorter rounder and nearly as heavy, is more timid on the swing.

Iris pushes him gently.

He smiles bravely.

I find it interesting that he throws rocks with his left hand:

he does everything else I can think of with his right hand.

With their chests un-girdled,

with the ropes cut at last,

the trees breathe deep.

Their wounds are laid bare to the light.

After school, we walk around the former Val-Estrie property—

still known as Val-Estrie due to the failure to acquire any other name.

On the way back from our walk, we stop among the tall cedars that grow just at the beginning of the games trail.

As Iris looks closely at things growing on the ground,

Akiva pulls loose stuck ropes that have been cut from the trees.

Slowly, people have been taking off the ropes that girdle various trees.

I have removed some. Others have removed others.

To soothe the trees’ wounds, my children give them hugs and kisses.

Trees are our companions.

I try for a posed photo amongst the cedars. My models have issues with the sunlight.

“Ow ow ow ow!”

“Perhaps is you face in opposite directions?” I suggest.

I take over 100 photos. All of them have cute children in them, which is a boon to any mediocre landscape photo.

Trees in the sunlight, sunlight in the trees.

I fill a bag full of ropes to take to the trash. There are many left.

 Slowly, slowly. Perhaps one day the ropes will be gone.