Living on the outskirts of the Geneseo dormitories, I took it easily upon myself to walk a small distance around my residence hall (Seneca), circling the few surrounding buildings and observing small pockets of nature and wildlife. During this past week particularly, I have taken special interest in the flowering white trees around campus—the type of tree, I am unsure of, but its small blossoms decorate the landscape almost entirely, and quite endearingly, and although they do not smell strongly I think of them with immense pleasure and often stop and note any changes to their size or frequency. I quite like how their branches frame the sky, and how unsparingly the buds bloom; having not experienced Spring in Geneseo before, I have been sure to notice how here, there seem so many trees that flower—at home, really, all I’ve noticed is the dogwood in a few parks. The branches of these nameless trees are curved and layered, and they bend angularly, with many kinks. The blossoms form in clusters, almost like how lupine looks and tapers, spear-like, but more rounded, and carrying more weight at the bottom.
While looking at one of the white trees that line a parking lot, I heard distantly the skitter of paper on concrete and turned to watch as a piece of scrap writing moved on the ground from afar. Though at some points it drew wide turns and appeared as though it were about to fly off, it would often return to its resting position, momentarily flipping over but always repositioning itself in what appeared to be some sort of ceaseless cycle. As I lifted my gaze from the paper, I was startled to find people adjacent to me, picnicking—sprawled out on their blanket, talking—as they were hidden by a few bushes, and I was, I discovered, distracted.
Briefly, I caught a glimpse of a bird in some nearby shrubbery; the small tree it hid in was sparse and just beginning to thicken with spring. It did not stay long, but watching as it held itself up against the wind was almost meditative, and as it flew off I was reminded of the warming weather that was to be soon returning. Close by, too, there were robins scattered across the grass, and they prodded endlessly at the ground as if it were going to let anything up. I wondered at their success and continued walking.
As I was returning to my room, I came across a walkway that appeared a bit neglected. It was covered in a thin layer of moss, something I have realized, here, I do not see often. There is ivy, weeds, small plants, and plenty of daffodils—little moss, however. The moss being surprisingly close to an entrance I often utilized, I wondered how often I had failed to notice the things right in front of me, the subtle but incessant workings of nature.
