12/19/2023

When my dog wants the end of the couch, I shift my habit. And from this seat, a sycamore fills the window. Its leaves are the color of pale rust. They are crispy and dry for the winter. Most of the other trees are bare. But not this one. Much of its foliage has yet to let go.

Leaves and branches stir in a breeze, revealing how air eddies and flows, loops and dances. The trailing branches make me think of submerged vegetation. It is something I never realized until recently. Atmosphere and ocean. They are the same thing.