Cresting a hill, you see it: above the fields and the tops of the walnut trees, low in the sky, very close, a giant hot air balloon, red and blue and green.
And there’s a word spelled out on the side, the letters tall as people: T-R-U-S-T.
You assume it’s just advertising. You think, there’s the name of a bank on the other side.
But lately you’ve been so anxious. So afraid.
Long ago the Jews believed the Torah was an orchard.
From a distance all we see are trees, but there are branches, too, closer in, crissing and crossing, and there are leaves, a profusion of leaves, and there is the fruit in its many colors, and the nuts in their many shells, and beneath the skin the flesh, and within the flesh the seeds.
And then you reach the bottom. You level out.
And the trees are wheeling past you, the walnut trees, twisting and gnarled. The rows are flashing by, one after the other.
The long, deep, darkening lanes.