I’ve lost count of the times I’ve photographed this dying tree. In some ways, it’s become my muse. On misty mornings, while faster things work to be settled, the birds, the air, the traffic from the highway, this tree is resolute. How is it weathering this? What changes has it made? Is it somehow thriving towards the end, despite the sharpness of the natural spire, that grows thiner and less dense each year? My gaze hits it often in mornings I feel frantic, needing to know it hasn’t fallen in the night. That, despite the decay, it’s still standing, doing its thing.