A tree looks dark in the backlighting. By chance, the image passes in front of me.
I stop and look again, observing...
A robust trunk, pending, seems to struggle while supporting its branches, which are first heavy, then light and thin. A tight web of nerves, like little streams of indian ink, escaping...
There are no leaves; it must be Winter. On the surface, great knots of roots wind around, serpent-like, before disappearing into the ground, which they so tenaciously grasp.
Gusts of wind design waves on the sea of exhausted grasses surrounding the motionless tree.
Sunset shows on the blue sky. Further ahead, where it is already evening, the first stars are rising.
A whitish line of clouds intersects the pattern of the branches, like an old badly healed wound.
The horizon is clear and seems that it's trying to slice the trunk, which is pushed by the wind always to the same side.
This tree stands out in the smallness of the elements... the only subject without color, but alive, in a cold and hostile world moving towards darkness.
The tree resists and holds the weight of every branch, gradually thicker and stronger,
until the bent trunk which refuses to break.
It will last still another night, patiently and mutely waiting for the arrival of dawn, and later the Spring, when life awakens and Creation once more finds peace with God.
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