I was out walking last autumn. It had been a wet night and puddles dotted the path from verge to verge. A pool of no particular grandeur caught my attention, for little other reason than place and time. I got to my knees and peered into its shallows. Leaves of russet, amber, primrose and hazel lay darkened and still two inches below. I blinked. Silhouetted branches swayed lethargically from shore to shore and clouds, as bold as anything, migrated across the sky. And that is when I realised, focus changes everything.
Be it an oak, sycamore, maple or larch, there is something unquenchably charming about a lone tree. Lured in by its stance, its intertwining branches, the palate of its leaves and the animals within, we find a spot atop its roots and beside its trunk, resting for some moments beneath its grandeur.
When we are ready, we continue on.