He stopped
at the little tree.
An original imagined moment, written before the edit. The tree's condition remains uncertain. The story leaves room for what the photograph cannot establish.
He came to the ridge while the snowfall was easing. The far hills had softened into grey, and the little tree stood where he remembered it.
On one of its branches, a narrow seam of snow held. Beneath it, the wood was scarcely thicker than a finger. He watched for a moment. Each movement of the branch changed the shape of that small weight.
His hand cooled in the open air. Down the slope, snow had settled between the grasses, covering the ground unevenly. He could no longer see where the roots entered it.
The valley continued beyond what he could make out. Soil, water, the next season—all remained outside his view. Yet the thin branch gave him somewhere to rest his attention.
When he moved on, a little snow fell from it. The branch rose.