The sun creaks through the gray dusk, etching the branches of a tree I did not plant. The branches are orderly but not symmetric, each fork with its own story of past light and winds, crafted from air and rain.
Every tree is different. Every branch is different.
Every tree is the same thing, whatever that same thing is, being a tree.
I am, for a moment, wordless, as I watch a world etched by purpose but not understanding. Wildness everywhere.
There is nothing to understand, but there is something to remember. We did not arise from wilderness.
We are wilderness.
We have as much purpose as a leaf on a tree.
No more, but at least as important, no less.