Whose arms outstretch as eternal reaches one to another? Whose boughs cradle mammals that suckle and hang, jump and climb? Who nests therein the baby winged-creature that fledges the branch? Whose roots entwine a salty brine for fishes, mollusks, sponges, and sea worms—and yet—has roots in soil, too, where earthworms sidle through and along, into and about the dark of dirt and root?
That each day I may walk unceasingly on the banks of my water, that my soul may repose on the branches of the trees which I planted, that I may refresh myself under the shadow of my sycamore. —Egyptian tomb inscription, circa 1400 BCGhosts, haints, haunts. Shimmer me timbers in this ghastly dance. Sun slices trees and stones. Leaves and bones. Ghosts, haints, haunts. Cloaked in fog and surrounded by a sea of yellow foot soldiers, the hollow tree makes its last stand. All is quiet on the western front. In the slough, a parade of sticks part way for a more meaningful destination from here to there. Trees: when stripped of primary and secondary colors—we end up with blacks, whites, grays and shades in between. At the end of the day, they’re all still trees.Complexity is the stuff we make out of simplicity.
