The Leaf

When I was a boy in Michigan, one summer day I was lying on my back in a field staring up at a large tree. It was one of those windless days, hot and still. I was alone.

After a while, I realized I was staring at a single leaf on the tree that was, for no discernable reason, turning on its stem. As far as I could see, this leaf was identical to all the other leaves, with the exception that it alone was moving.

I watched it for a while more. It kept turning slowly.

In later years, I've mentioned this incident to various people and asked them what they thought could have caused it. Someone suggested maybe an insect or other small creature had caused the motion. Someone else suggested the stem was weakened and the leaf was preparing to fall.

Today, when I was sitting on a bench overlopoking some water near my office, I noticed that despite the stiff breeze rippling the surface of the water, a small item that looked like a red can was holding absolutely still in place. Eventually, I figured out it was not a can but a float, anchored as part of the navigation system in that waterway.

Suddenly, I remembered the leaf again, and my fascination for people and things that differentiate themselves from the crowd. It is a lonely craft, at times, of the journalist, being an observer, a witness. We often seek partners. We always write, seeking to connect.

Even when we aren't sure exactly what it is we are trying to say. Maybe someone who is listening will reflect back to us the truths that, to us, remain elusive.