I found myself wanting to write something profound. It ain't easy. But sometimes, the simplest thing is the most profound. The backyard tree, scarred knots where branches fell off, perhaps with the help of a swinging child, the break accompanied by tears. Leaves, from green to brown, red on the way. Light trails up and down the the trunk; termites lived here once. Peeling bark, patterns indiscernable to the eye of another. Splitting off of branches, like babe from parent, connected, unseparable with life. The years of growth, represented by rings, explanation of time, so like the human mind. And even more so, the tree the cover, some explication observed, things seen, deductions made, but nothing really known. Yet with a saw, cruel implement of destruction, the truth may be seen. Years of low growth, sallow, thin rings, drought. And rings of life, full, supple, green, plenty. But in seeing its inner truth, its history and like to mind, it is dead to Earth, and with explication: Killed. And so much like a person, the illusion of possibility of understanding in life just what makes it possible to communicate, no matter how shallowly. And that is my profound thought.