Yesterday on the way to work, I drove past a park and in the middle, stood a tall, full tree with foliage of the brightest yellow. The tree was losing it’s leaves, one by one, and as they fluttered to the ground, they landed on the still green grass. The effect of the tree, in the centre of a yellow circle of leaves in a sea of rich, summery fresh green, was striking.
I slowed the car, but did not stop because I wanted to be on time for work. I made a mental note to stop on my way home, and went so far as to borrow the department’s SLR rather than relying on my iPhone.
Then I ran late at a site visit, rushed to a restaurant (located so very close to the tree) for a family birthday dinner, and thought: “Tomorrow.”
I dropped Clara off at nursery school this morning, and gave myself enough time to stop and photograph the tree. As I drove, I thought of those colors, the yellow and green. Of the photo I hoped I’d get, to capture that moment.
I rounded the corner in the road, my breath bated. And there the tree stood, barren, all it’s leaves scattered on the ground beneath. The transformation of the tree, so abrupt and impatient startled me in it’s ruthlessness. A fleeting moment of yellow and green that I understandably and knowingly let me pass me by.
Yellow and green.