It was taller than my notifications,
wider than my feed.
It's some kind of oak, I think.
Or maple. Or maybe just… there.

I stood beneath it, hoodie up,
shoes caked in suburban mud.
The air tasted real—like earth,
like crushed leaves and maybe time.

I hadn’t meant to go outside.
I was just tired of my ceiling.
My thoughts kept bouncing off white walls,
and Spotify didn’t have the mood I needed.

So I walked.
No AirPods, no steps to count.
Just me,
and the guilt of not knowing its name.

That tree.
Branches curled like question marks.
Leaves hanging like paused thoughts.
A trunk you could lean on and say nothing.

It didn’t need a like,
a share, a trend.
It didn’t ask me to be anything.
But quiet and breathing.

I stayed there
Until I wasn’t so glitchy inside.
Until I felt more signal
And less static.

I still don’t know its name.
But it knows mine now.

.    .    .