by Greg Boyd

Somehow a crackpot biologist figures out how to grow a money

tree. When the first bud breaks, Grant’s face unfolds. Then the tree

doubles in size daily, until it’s taller than a redwood, its branches

broader than an oak’s. And still it grows, cracking sidewalks and

toppling buildings as its trunk widens, draining lakes and diverting

rivers as its root system stretches, eclipsing the sun as its billions

of branches, each bristling with hundred-dollar leaves, bud and

sprout. Giant seed coins explode like popcorn, fall to the earth, and

blossom overnight. Among men, those best suited for survival grow

wings with which to fly to trees. They dot the leaves like aphids, their

tiny mouths tearing at the green.

Published in: on May 30, 2009 at 8:41 pm  Leave a Comment  
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