As a child, when I first noticed oak trees move their branches in a breeze, my surprise was like first realizing soccer jerseys mix their purples and oranges on the field, drawn from their separate sides toward the ball; or the polka dotted bows on my shirt becoming an unwelcome conversation piece; or being suddenly pulled into a little chair facing the beige church nursery wall, unaware of my crime. So it was startling, but not the same. I watched patches of sunlight skip over the ground as the branches stirred the shade, listened to the leaves and absorbed the cooler air, enamored by the pleasant shock of no shocks! It was more like the day we saw blackbirds eating French fries in the parking lot of Bradwoods Pharmacy. My jolt at this unexpected scene was soothed by Mom’s soft voice bouncing down from the bright blue sky, “I don’t blame them!” her laugh covering me in a coolly dazzling shade.