There is a tree outside the window from where I sit while working at home amidst the coronavirus lock-down. I do not know what tree it is, I am no botanist. I don't feel the urge to know, either.
A month ago it was all barren. It evoked the beauty of a radiant sage: simple, sufficient, timeless.
Then it bore its leaves lightly, until about a week ago. When the spring winds blew, the leaves trembled delicately, like vulnerable pets who must be handled with great care.
Now it is dense, and reflects the light shone on it by the sun in short-lived glitters. They remind me of afternoons spent playing outside as a kid, observing these patterns of here-now-gone-now light with the wonder and attention of someone who notices something for the first time.
The tree was beautiful each time. In a few months it will be its most good-looking, waving about almost proudly in its colorful autumn glory.
And then be barren again, beautiful, once again.
