Fredrick Zydek

Praying While the Trees Are Bare The first glint of spring is weeks away. Except for a few tough-stemmed brittle leaves from last year's crop, the trees are barren as old nuns. They wait the resurrection of juices slumbering like rare wines beneath them. Right now they are no more than sketches outlined against the sky. Out by the witless willow, three fledgling maples stand like stick children etched against a background of gray and brown. Do they know how…