Pre-dawn light curved around the horizon and cast the world in its image, soft-edged, ephemeral. High in their tree platform, Diana slept. Logan lay, propped on one elbow, studying her profile, a pale mountain range against the tree-tasseled horizon. He loved the bump in her nose. Feeling his gaze, she awoke and smiled, and something inside him broke and bloomed at the same time. They kissed.
Diana took in the fresh air, the lemon-earth scent, the dampness, the slight sway of being so high in the tree. “Have you named this tree?” she asked.
“Why do you ask?”
“I noticed a lot of people named the trees, and the groves all have names.”
“Greg King decided we should name all the groves, to get people to connect with them, invest in them emotionally.”
“So have you?”
Logan smiled, “Uuma.”
