There’s an old gnarled tree by the side of the footpath. I could have walked by but instead I stopped to look.
Other people came along the footpath, some walking their dogs, others lost in thought. They walked past the tree but they didn’t look. They didn’t see.
When we write we look that little bit deeper. We look for the small telling detail that creates a scene, be it the buzz of insects around the apple blossom on a spring evening, or the old man at the back of the bus picking food from between his teeth.
So pause and look again. A tree can be so much more. As I stood there I could see the hubbub of activity, back and forth, back and forth.
Look at little closer