Sean Winn

Corner Tree

Parallel strands of barbed wire march outwards
from its center, spiking and curling at odd angles.
The oldest are brittle to the touch, more rust than
wire. Been here a long time, Dad says. A final set
has been tacked to the bark, continuing a run
down the fence line — shiny and taut galvanized
steel that will turn cattle for another thirty years.
Remember this tree, son. If anyone disputes the
property line, it’s been here for generations. Dad
runs his hand along the curve of the trunk and
pats it. He looks down the fence and sees his
father showing him the same tree, and his father
before him. He sees powerful modern tractors,
and rickety earlier versions. Mules and men in
suspenders, pulling stumps to open the land. And
through his eyes, I see them too. I place my hand
next to his, feeling history beneath the rough
bark. Yes, Dad. I’ll remember this tree.

Sean Winn is a former banker who picked up the pen after leaving the workforce. His fiction, essays, and poetry have since appeared in dozens of literary journals, most recently in Talking River Review, Glint, and Marathon. In addition to writing, his other project is getting an environmental nonprofit off the ground: the Plastic Reduction Project. After living in Indonesia, Singapore, and Hong Kong, Austin, TX Sean is now home.