About the work

The hawthorn tree, gnarled and low to the ground, has stood here for perhaps a hundred years, resisting the wind. Every spring it makes an effort, pushing out a few white flowers, then the small red berries that the birds ignore. It’s a marker for sheep, for walkers, for the occasional lost dog. It has caught more than one kite in its time, always the cheap ones, the kind that break on impact. Today, though, it’s a good one, a box kite, the type that needs a serious gust to lift. The wind, in the end, always wins. But what happened to the person holding the string?