Sometimes the Trees are Beautiful

Sometimes I look out my window and see a mass of leaves and branches swaying in the breeze and think to myself: My god those shades of greens. Those shadows and limes and verdes. I could soak in the infinite unexplainable inexplicable complexity peering in at me through my window forever. I could ponder the alternating twigs of leaves coming off main branches. I could wonder about the evolutionary pros and cons of spiky leaves and rounded ovals. Here's the view from my porch:

Wow, what a paradise of abundance. Here for me and all my neighbors.

Last fall I was walking down some streets near my old home and every tree jumped out at me. Such a cacophony of reds and oranges and yellows. The way they reached their veiny hands through the overcast sky, painting an intricate ceiling overhead. I just walked down the street taking picture after picture. There was this one:

And all of these:

I remember one unseasonably cold day in April when I wasn't looking forward to the day but on my walk to the tower I realized peering through the fog I was surrounded by somber dignified ancient creatures. They watch me pass day after day. And would watch millions like me go by. I am such a small part of such a beautiful world. And I am so lucky to be a part of it.

One time as an undergrad I was with a person on acid. And they were stunned by the beauty of the sun on the lake. I let them know I thought it was weird they were taking a picture. The sun looked the same that day as it did everyday. The next day they'd look back at it with their normal eyes. If they ever did look back. But I understand now. I understand now.

But I don't feel like this right now. I have some papers I need to read that I don't feel like reading. I keep refreshing newsfeed websites which never show me anything nice. I wish I knew why sometimes the world was beautiful and sometimes it just was.