I stopped along the Blue Ridge Parkway before sunrise, when the mountains are still mostly silhouette and the sky feels larger than it should. This weathered tree stood alone on the ridge—stripped bare, twisted by years of wind, but still reaching outward. Behind it, the layers of hills and a thin band of cloud slowly separated as the light came up. I made the photograph quickly, trying to hold onto that moment when everything is quiet and the world feels paused. The tree became more than a subject; it felt like a last witness—enduring, alert, and stubbornly present.
