There it was, just laying on the ground, an ordinary branch. Thin diameter and perhaps three feet long. Nothing special about the branch, no outstanding color, just plain brown. Straight but not too straight. No wonderful knotty curves nor fancy bark. Just a plain old stick knocked out of its Maple by the winds of summer.
Two years old and of such blonde curls she runs through the grass and swiftly comes to a halt. She turns back and waddles over to the stick. Her eyes widen with amazement as she picks up the stick and realizes how long it is. You can almost see the feeling of power rise within her. She thrust her little arm as high as she can and lets out a shriek of excitement, as if she has conquered the land she stands upon.
With her imagination in tow, she sees a sparrow perched on the roof. Abruptly, she holds her stick high and calls to the bird. “Bird. Stick.” She proceeds to carry on with basic instinct; hitting the shed, trying to launch the stick as if it were a spear for hunting. She digs in the sand, pokes at a few grasshoppers and ants, and even shows the dog. “Doggie. Stick.”
Empowered with this new found braveness she returns to the Maple to see the small but fearsome looking white spider she had previously avoided. With her stick in hand, she now leans forward and yells “Helwo white fider!” Laughing and shrieking all the while. She hits the bark on the side of the tree, shrieking at the spider, “White fider. Stick.”
After a few moments, the spider fades from curiosity, and the stick falls to the ground as she remembers the great fun she had earlier running circles around the car. And still, every time around is new and worthy of her uninhibited laughter and amazement.