one slow as sap, one bored in microseconds. In the hush of the forest, time is a river that forgets its own speed. A tree does not count seconds it counts seasons, the quiet thickening of rings, the patient stretch of roots through dank soil. Spring is a whisper, summer a long deep breath, autumn a letting go, winter a dream without haste. Trees know incremental growth. They do not rush toward tomorrow They become tomorrow, one ring at a time. Our time is a metronome set to alarm clocks and deadlines. demanding now, now, now. We measure life in minutes saved. Squeeze time into multitasking, in the race to fill every gap with noise, with motion, with the illusion of progress. Our time is never simply lived. We run fast to stand still, chasing a future that arrives already obsolete. Trees stand in time’s deep current, rooted in the present, unhurried by the future, unburdened by the past. We dart in time’s shallow rapids, forgetting that time's river, was never meant to be held only witnessed. The wisdom of trees is this: let time pass through you like light through leaves, as a season to inhabit.