This tree is down the road from my house, and I see it a couple times a week when I go to town for this or that.
This tree has struggled to live in the adobe clay that fills this valley. It is difficult to survive here. Dry, windy, harsh.
This tree has managed to stand for God knows how long against the odds. Every fall it looks like this, sort of Poe-like. Kind of melancholy and sad. Can't you see it's limbs filled with black crows?
Like it wants to give up?
But I know it will be back in the spring, fighting to live one more year.
I've been writing a long time--more than twenty years. Sometimes, I feel just like this tree. Tired. Sapped of energy and the will to keep fighting for a place in a sometimes harsh landscape.
But, like my tree, I somehow find it in me to live another season. Write another book. Keep standing.