There is something to be said about just enough. My little dog takes the raspberries off the low branches. Yesterday we found a huge tree growing where a big tree shouldn’t be, it was above 8000 ft, growing in a crack of rock, on a mountain running out of trees. The top was dead. It’s my legs that are going first. In a place where it’s easy to see where the glaciers were hundreds of years ago. When I see a big tree I try to imagine history counted on its rings. How big would it have been when Thompson arrived in the valley below in 1807? How did it escape being stunted by lightening? My lifetime counted on the outside rings. I’m bad at time, I over and under estimate, arriving too early or late. A storm or sliding snow will someday take the big tree down. It will fall quietly, leaving its mark on the scree below.