A quiet stretch of road runs between two small towns. On either side is a rocky scrub brush, not particularly useful for much of anything. A dilapidated barbwire fence divides the asphalt from most of the terrain. There wouldn’t be much reason to mention it outside the pale birch tree that seems lost. At least it seemed like a tree at first.
To say it loomed in the distance would be a lie, but driving down that state highway it peaked through the trees, teasing the promise of something unusual. No one knew who had made the sculpture. But it wasn’t there when I first started driving this way. But then one day there was more of it. And then more. But definitely not all. It looks like a man missing an arm or a Giraffe missing a neck or car missing all it’s wheels and roof.
I suppose the artist wandered off before it was finished. No one knows exactly what it is supposed to be. I finished it in my head at least a couple dozen times. I can’t say I haven’t been tempted to do something about it, but I can’t imagine actually sculpting - I wouldn’t know where to begin. And anyway, I like what it is: whatever I need it to be.
Which is why, when I saw the woman with the axe, I had to pull over.
