The snag on the corner looked like a wizard. The tree was a part of hedge of green poplars that had been planted long ago by Old Man Tolkie, a Norwegian ship-builder who had lived near here in a house with a roof that was shaped like a ship's bow.

The tree became a snag because it was the tallest tree at the top of the hill, and it got hit by lightning and burned. The twenty-foot tall, staff-holding, dark wizard looked down on the valley. His presence must have made Mr. Stipe uneasy. The old farmer got out a tank of fuel and a propane torch and set about cleaning up the piles of brush, burning weeds, and removing the imposing snag from the borders of his property.

I drove up the hill to watch the wizard burn. The evening sky was a flat slate. A shooting star streaked down to the dark mountains. I stood in spellbound awe of his blazing magical glory, until the sky was dark. The moment I turned, relaxed and took a real breath...BASH...he fell. Sparks rolled up like a spell had been cast.

The next morning was Easter. I saddled my horse and went up the road to take a look at what was left of the wizard. There was a white ash outline of the corpse on the ground. Burned for his witchcraft, purged white, with his heart flickering small sparks of magic, still.