Leaves in Morning Light
The morning air carries a particular freshness that only May can offer. Through the window, layers of green unfold—some leaves bright as new copper coins, others deep as forest shadows. Each one catches the light differently, creating a symphony of greens I hadn’t noticed yesterday.
Have you ever counted how many shades of green exist in a single view? The young leaves shimmer almost yellow where the sun touches them directly. Behind them, older foliage provides a darker backdrop, rich and steady.
The Texture of New Growth
Running my fingers along a low-hanging branch, the leaves feel impossibly soft, like silk that hasn’t quite dried. They bend without breaking, spring back with gentle insistence. This tenderness won’t last—by June, they’ll have toughened for summer’s heat.
A slight breeze sets everything in motion. The whole green curtain shifts and dances, revealing then hiding glimpses of sky. In these moments, the boundary between inside and outside seems to dissolve, leaving only the endless conversation between light and leaf.