It nests in my backyard. Days, months, and years go by, yet its reflection never changes. Unlike me, it will never leave, but our roots will always stay firmly planted in the soft soil beneath that apple tree.

Every fall its leaves will change. They morph from green into golden yellows and dirty browns. They turn brittle, and crinkle in the autumn breezes that carry the smells of fall: the sweet aroma of hot apple cider, the musky smell of smoke from a nearby campfire, and the spicy mix of pumpkin and cinnamon. As the weather grows cooler and the days shorter, the leaves begin to fall. One by one, they break away from their branches and drift down to the ground. They dance a minuet on their way down, twirling and swirling in the cool air, in no rush to rest. The tiny apples will start falling too, dropping from high in the branches to land with a soft thud in the grass beneath. At night, deer will come to eat the fallen apples, and in the morning, only the teeny, tiny black seeds will remain. Sometimes, we will pick some of the good apples and take them inside to make sweet, hot, juicy baked cinnamon apples. Once all of the leaves have fallen, we rake them up into a leaf pile to jump in to. The brittle leaves will break, and the tiny pieces will get stuck in my hair, but the joy of feeling like a kid again for those few moments of jumping in a leaf pile make it worth it.

Every winter, the tree seems to sleep. Unchanging for months, it just sits in the cold grass with naked branches. Glittering snowflakes gracefully float from the sky to softly rest upon the bark. After a freezing rain, a small layer of ice will encase the ends of the branches like a water droplet that doesn’t want to drop, causing the branches to glisten in the weak winter sun. After a heavy winter storm, billows of fluffy white snow blanket the thick trunk and the ground beneath the tree. Every once in a while I can catch a glimpse of a rosy red cardinal resting amongst the stark white of the snow. When the ice on the tree starts to melt, the tiny beads of water drip to the ground, creating a porous-like pattern in the snow that they fall in to. When at last winter draws to a close, the tree begins to breathe again, opening its arms wide to the few rays of a warm sun that waits patiently for winter to pack up its snow and ice so the new sun can take its spot in the sky.

Spring. The time of rebirth. All around, plants and animals come out of hiding from the frigid winter weather, yearning for food and warm sunshine. The air feels fresh, and buds begin to grow on the apple tree. Tiny at first, they grow each day until the branches are veiled in leaves. Dozens of flowers bloom amidst the leaves, their colors ranging from milky white to a soft blush pink. Their petals are silk, their fragrance sweet. Birds build their nests in the branches, hidden by the veil of flowers and leaves. I cannot see them, but I can hear their sweetly sung melodies that carry in the breezes.

When the days are long and full of hot sunshine, summer has come at last. The tree teems with life of all kind. The leaves shine bright green, the apples glow a perfect, luminescent golden yellow, and baby birds sing in their nests as the mother birds fly in and out to get them food. The lush grass beneath the tree makes the perfect spot to lay down in sun-speckled shade to escape the hot summer sun. From that blissful little spot, I can watch the clouds dance up above in the sky as I feel the long, soft grass tickle my bare arms and legs. A lazy breeze will quietly rustle the leaves above me as the endless sun-kissed afternoon stretches on and on as I lay under that apple tree.