It’s high summer and a tree in the prime of its life falls.

Up until now, the tree looked good. They were the image of beauty and vigor. Now, broken at the base, the tree is tethered to life by a few ancillary roots.

Not dead, but parallel to the ground they’re starting to look more like a log. Months before winter, their leaves wither and die.

Winter comes and the tree shows no outward sign of life. Friends of the tree say goodbye.

Winter makes its mark. Cracks happen, branches break and the crown lies ambigous on the ground.

But, from a wound in the tree a shining bud pushes through.

By the middle of spring the tree is impaling adjacent space with long slender spikes of life. The new growth forming more buds, leaves and branches.

Forces of decay and growth shape the fallen tree together. The new form, exceptional.

Seasons turn over, and over again. The spikes are now trunks.

The fall ended the silent negotiation between death and life. The fall revealed what was always there.

Nothing changed, the tree is not the same.