Her morning began rendering another Grandfather Oak. This name was between her and her screen. Every whole blast was a new lion face in its time, pitting atomic ferocities across the Iron Curtain. That was their time to howl; this is her time. Without audio to accompany the detonation, she wondered the power behind this Grandfather Oak's most visible roar. The camera trembled. She tensed almost to sickness as only the landscape exerted command over this roar. She imagined this is how it all started - all of us, all of it. Her desk a time machine to watch majestic conceptions erupt as she pleased. Each sequence is the same. Flash. Wave. Surge and swell higher, broader. Each figure distinct. Now all measured anew. We're looking for precision this time around they said. "This is why we leave the Grandfather Oaks to you, Computer," she said. "Otherwise I'd want to quantify them as all the heat from time." Something with a number that cannot be.
Andrew Kerbel and his wife, Sarah, make plenty of time to fold paper until it flies and splash through puddles with their son around their home in northeast Wisconsin. He is a graduate of the MFA program at Goddard College, copywriter, ultramarathoner and advertising instructor at a private university. His writing can be found in the 2011 Montréal International Poetry Prize, the Farmer General, among others.