Thanks to LaGasse for the photograph.
I remember often living farther north when a child. An imposing pecan tree shaded my youth in the summer and grew my imagination into adulthood. In the winter that shade receded; greats winds blew across the cotton fields of my home. With their brown eyes watching a sea of clouds tied to the earth, they reached up in hopes of touching the heavens. Alas hanging their heavy laden minds down and down and down holding the position of persevering servitude. Each mind an individual unknown to the collective they soaked up their wares living in perfect harmony. I saw these fields grow into blooming airs; that robust and vivacious health that so was so sought by that land. I saw them grow and stretch. Then age and fall. Always replaced. Always forgotten. No longer did I see this land as filling as I did when my eyes were clouded by a virgin enthusiasm. No longer was this land something I was proud to say was me. I dreamt of my anger boiling over and burning these prisons that held down natures true self. The self of nature that pushed forward and upward. The nature that moved our instinct to become the greatness that we are. We have forgotten this in ourselves. We have shamed the world which spawned us and we spurn the soil that feeds us and the clouds that cool us. There beneath that tree my eyes were changed. To see it in the winter bare.
I knew it would grow again.