A gaze tethers our mind to another thing, in this case, to a tree.

A large elm tree grew on the shores of an island in lower New York harbor, big enough to be seen from the mouth of the Raritan Bay, calling people to come on in.

The tree pulled ashore a boat of French Huguenots who proceeded to move inland and form a small village so that they could worship freely.

Must have pulled enough people ashore to beat a path straight perpendicular into the heart of Staten Island, to cross its future rail line and terminate at the Crown tavern.

A tree can be a focal point, something you use to situate yourself. Before 2001, I could get around downtown by knowing where I was in relation to the World Trade Center, which towered above all in lower Manhattan.

A tree could be as towering, given time, soil, no one clearing the land.

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