I haven't seen that old tree in years. It seems much smaller? Or am I just taller? Maybe it's a trick of the setting sun! A memory mirage, where all the large and imposing things are inversely sized in reality. Like when you sing quietly, And think your voice is soaring. A trickling stream becomes a roaring river in our younger selves. And when we go home again, It's like we are returning to the scene of a lovely , golden crime. Wearing the shoes of a mighty giant.