Branch after branch after branch commingle in harmony,
the percussive scraping, snapping, creaking, and cracking is soothing.
An organic wooden rhythm emerges as the wind plays its song;
leaves rustle and shimmer a final cadenza before taking flight.
When did the first branches touch?  No one can say now.

Where one begins and one ends is not only impossible to see, but now unimportant.
Geometric intricacies that could never be imagined alone, now exist.
There is unselfish sharing of sky-space and infinite room to grow forever.
Squirrels in transit have no awareness of the two entities entwined together.
Birds flutter in and out, from twig to twig, their melodies mingle:

And she looks up to see pure joy.