The tree looks like it got lost on its way to a modern art gallery.

The white tree stood like an accidental masterpiece. Its branches stretched skyward, bare yet defiant against the muted tones of the landscape. It was impossible to ignore its presence—it demanded attention without asking for it. The spiral of rocks at its feet felt like an offering or perhaps an audience gathered in silence. Beyond the tree, the bushland sprawled endlessly, fading into a horizon that seemed to promise rain but withheld it as if teasing the parched earth. I knelt to touch one of the stones in the spiral, half expecting it to hum with some ancient energy. Instead, it was cool and inert, a reminder that not everything has a hidden meaning. The air was heavy with anticipation; even the birds seemed quieter here. This was a place where time slowed down just enough for you to feel its weight.