Ode to the Sycamore

I had not seen

a sycamore tree

a decade ago—

back in India.

When I read

'The Alchemist'

by Paulo Coelho,

Protagonist Santiago sleeps

under a sycamore tree.

I could have visualized

a mango or neem tree—

But I didn’t know

what a sycamore looked like.

And that made me sad.

The very next year

destiny brought me

to live in California.

I made nature hiking

my way of life.

Every weekend,

I explored woodlands,

canyons, and creeks.

Guess what?

Sycamore is keystone species

in this biome.

I saw sycamores

of all shapes and ages,

in every season—

bare and breaking buds,

full and rust-colored in fall,

leaves dancing in the wind,

seed balls dangling.

I saw crows congregate

on their canopy,

mistletoe hanging

from the branches,

woodpeckers

drilling little holes.

My family sat on the

arched branches.

I saw sycamores

to my heart’s content.

A non-greedy desire—

is fulfilled, I guess.

So this is an ode

to the sycamores.