by the dead stream, standing firm
through the dry season
This really is an ancient tree said to have been growing in Southern California before the Pilgrims landed on the other side of the Americas. It's oldest limbs are hard as stone and held up by man-made concrete blocks, but it still sprouts new limbs and tender leaves.
I love the rootedness of trees, the way they reach deep into the dark depths of earth and up into the brightness of the sky, the way they grow slow and sure and don't need to move to see the world change.
I leave you with this contemplative picture and musings. Short but pithy, I hope. Today and Tuesday are my two critique group meetings and I have writerly rooting and reaching to tend.