The pecan trees are always the last to leaf. They then rally and make their presence known by shedding enormous quantities of pollen from their heavy, dangling tassels. The ground outside is dusted with a color I love to see but tire of breathing.
I use a roller and palette knives and a steel blade to apply and remove paint on panels. I work quickly, stop for stretches of time, and jump back in. Friends of mine gasp when I describe the noises I mutter, the cursing through frustration. Friends assume I whistle or experience sensations of peace. But I worry the walls of my studio cannot contain my amplitude and that my neighbors might wonder. When you try to paint the intricacies of a branch with the rounded edge of a butter knife you feel primitive, and yell you must.
I can identify types of trees more so as I get older. Which ones are invasive or brittle, which are known for their virility or decorative gifts. Funny how trees used to all be the same when I was younger. But I reside in this town and look to the subtleties of seasons for my source of inspiration, for my variable, for my travel. I find myself looking differently at people, for people who reside here as completely as I want to.