birch

I knew I had found my way home by the one tree I knew and loved. It still stood there on the top of the hill. Set against the greenness of the grass underneath, it looked dead but it was only winter that's all. When the snow fell, landed and collected on the ground it would come alive though, in the black and white beauty that black and white is. So vivid and dreamy and Burton like. I expected a wiry little man to merge from its bark, cause he lived there, in the tree. It would explain the 'aliveness' of the birch, it would explain how I was convinced it spoke to me, with wisdom and reassurance.