Some times I think he thinks he's hiding.
Other times he thinks I think I don't see.

In one breath - the winter landscape is harsh and bare and without life or color.
In the next - it's filled with the color of un-imaginable possibility.

I don't always know which. I never know whether.

Some days I think it's no thing.
Other days I think it's every thing and much more than all.

Simple branches that frame the sky.
Invisible roots anchored way down under.

Some times I think he's right. He is hiding. I don't see.
How might I capture the wind in these trees?