Spring has already begun—somewhere.
The light lingers a little longer. The air has softened. The world is quietly shifting, almost imperceptibly, toward something new.
And yet, here, nothing seems to have changed.
A small group of trees stands exposed against the open sky. Their branches, intricate and unguarded, trace delicate lines into the pale brightness above. No leaves, no color—only form.
It would be easy to mistake this for stillness. For absence.
As if something is missing.
But nothing here feels incomplete.
There is a kind of clarity in this moment—before anything returns. When nothing is hidden, nothing softened. Just structure, just presence, just the quiet certainty that change is already underway, even if it cannot yet be seen.
These trees are not waiting to become something else.
They already are.
What we see is simply a different phase of becoming.
Not delayed. Not behind.
Just—before leaves return.
