There is a tree nearby that haunts me, rooted deeply into the hillside and growing up far into the horizon crooked and crippled, imperfect. And when I look at it, I then look out across the Marron Valley at Parker Mountain, and my eyes follow all of the aberrations of contours, the patterns of trees in gullies, the layers of vegetation standing ancient along ledges and plateaus. Fencelines in the grasses. Horse trails in the snow. Sunlight through the varied wings of a raven.
Few things of value are defined by their “sameness.” Our hearts are drawn to things ill of fate or design.