Every day I see the tree.
It’s not a big tree. A bit wiry, never has all that many leaves, no matter the amount of branches. I don’t know trees, I don’t know what it is. If it weren’t for the white blossoms, such small things, no one would ever see it where it decided to grow. On the side of the hill, surrounded by the greats which could completely encompass the entirety of the tree in their trunks.
I don’t know when I first noticed the tree. Many years after driving past it, I’m sure. And my attention changes nothing in the tree’s existence. I’m not sure it changed anything in mine.
Yet every time I pass by now, I look to the right. It stands there, resilient as ever.
Perhaps something has changed.