When our mother began drinking, everything seemed broken. Civilization itself seemed a huge mistake, so we took to the hills were there was no welcome. Under a hundred-year-old oak whose spiny bower centered on herself, whose trunk remained unmoved by tears and rough-barked arm could never offer kindness of a human sort, we—strangely—found comfort. Girls are an avalanche of their own making, reckless, falling hastily to woods and field. And afterwards the wild order fiercely quiets all distress. So in defeat, we learned to fold our legs like fawns within the gold-flushed oats, and like the newt beside the spring, to reach one finger then another tentatively out to touch the green-damp moss, judiciously, as if unsure this Earth would really hold, but wanting still to offer our caress.