Across my desk, through my window, I can always see this handsome tree. An oak, perhaps. I can see it even in the dark, since I already know where to look. It often makes those little sounds only trees can make. My tree, I comfort myself occasionally. It has countless branches and twigs and shades of bark. Yet, I am convinced that I could actually count them, if I ever decided to dedicate myself to such an awesome task. When I wear my glasses, acquired but a few months ago, I can indeed see every single twig, every single bifurcation and tip, every scar, every motion, however slight. Presently the tree sways gently, leafless, as it is still somewhat early in the season. It is so close that I could easily touch it, were I able to open my large window and reach toward its branches with my hands. But that cannot be done without disturbing the neighbors. The window is fixed. That is why my view remains free of obstructions that a window must otherwise bear: partitions, knobs, and all the countless parts that you can observe unassembled behind the counters of a hardware store before an idle attendant approaches you and asks politely: “What can I do for you today?”

Addendum (February 14, 1993)

It was a maple tree, not an oak. How silly of me! At the time I lived with my first wife and son on Maple Avenue in Cambridge, Massachusetts. Number 56. Second floor. Whenever I remember the picture window in front of my desk, my heart overflows with warmth on account of that maple tree.