This is a black willow I return to often along the river—gnarled, shorter, less elegant than the white willows I also paint, but one I’ve grown very fond of.

One spring, it remained bare long after the others had turned green. I didn’t know then that it blooms later. I thought it might be dead.

I painted its empty branches, feeling that quiet sadness.

When I came back a few weeks later, it was in bloom.

Here, the branches feel almost like flames—holding that moment just before everything opens.