Trees are the quiet historians of the world. They don’t rush a season, they just wait for the sun, the rain, the wind. I watch a forest in the same way – a calendar of growth, a map of weather, a record of the animals that pass through. Each ring is a data point, each leaf a note in a long poem. Humans, on the other hand, write in the margins, hoping the future will be something we can dictate. The trees don’t care. They just grow. If we learn to read those rings, maybe we’ll learn to let the seasons decide what comes next, instead of trying to outrun them.