ink · january · sketchbook p. 41
the orchard tree, the only one still standing of the original four, drawn in the cold from the back step. malus domestica, — planted before the house was here, certainly before any of us. in winter the tree explains itself: every branch, every fork, every twig that summer hid. one apple still up there, gone leather, missed by the birds and the pickers both.
ink was a mistake. the cold thickened it on the nib; the line went heavy where I did not want it to. by the time I reached the smallest twigs the page was darker than the tree, which is not how trees work. winter is supposed to thin a thing.
what is wrong is the trunk. I drew it twice as wide as it is. perhaps because I was cold and wanted the tree to be more substantial than I was. perhaps because old trees should look old, and this one only looks tired.
field-note · margin two crows came down. one looked at me, the other at the apple. neither was impressed.