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The tree at the window

Modifié le : 2019/07/18

I reg­u­lar­ly look up to the sky while the com­put­er is work­ing on a task. Embed­ded in one of the win­dows, a tree spreads its branch­es. I saw it turn green in the spring, I saw it move, some­times soft­ly, some­times mad­ly, accord­ing to the heat and storms. I saw it turn orange and yellow.

Only this one can dis­tract me because the oth­er large win­dows are more urban. The tree pro­vides a con­trast both in the urban land­scape of this neigh­bor­hood and inside the build­ing where I work. We are arranged like this tree in its win­dow, each of us has our own cubicle.

These are par­al­lels, not real truths. The tree is not alone. A park, just a short dis­tance away, is its exten­sion. It prob­a­bly speaks to its fel­low trees through rus­tle, chem­i­cal exchanges or, again, below the sur­face, through the old roots that take the relay. For my part, work is not so iso­lat­ed. My team­mates talk to me, I get calls, I get up, I go to meet­ings. If he could look at me, the tree would say the same thing to itself as I would. He would watch me slow­ly change my colors.

I don’t know its fate. It may live many years longer after mine turn to dust. Either it will be shot down by a road admin­is­tra­tion, or by pol­lu­tion that will end up killing human­i­ty anyway.

It is so unim­por­tant. Right now, this win­dow is my life, I look up at it. The sea­sons pass. I breathe calm­ly until the next wind, the next sun or the pos­si­ble storm.

Tags:tree

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