A gritty wind blows across this field while I wait and watch. I can not bring myself to take a photograph of that tree, so I keep it all on my heart. I have to step over the empty bottles under the Drinking Tree on my way home. I've never been there after the sun sets. I've never seen the drinkers. I can only imagine their secret meetings here after the shadows turn to night. I know their poison of choice by the labels on the discarded bottles: Jack Daniels Black Label, Dark Eyes Vodka, brown beer bottles of every brand. Bird shit is splattered across some of the bottles. Somehow I think it is wrong to take a photograph of this place. It seems like a sacred place to the mysterious drinkers who come here every night. Even in the bright sun, this is a dark place. If I close my eyes I can see the people sitting, slumped shoulders underneath the canopy of the Drinking Tree consuming their hopes and dreams in the dark away from judgmental eyes and unforgiving stares.