Alone in the fog of Tuscany

The tree stands alone, but not abandoned.
It rises from the ground fog like a thought that is just forming, still hesitant, still quiet. The hills of Tuscany lie hidden beneath it, softly outlined, as if the night had covered them out of consideration. Volterra sleeps somewhere beyond the visible, while the morning tentatively dawns.
The mist breathes slowly. It comes and goes, swirling around the trunk as if to check whether this tree is really there or just a memory of the landscape. There is no emptiness in this silence, only patience. Everything seems to be waiting: the light, the grass, time itself.
Then the sunrise begins, not with a bang, but with a promise. A pale glow settles over the blue of the morning, gradually dissolving the cold of the night. The tree receives the light without haste. Its crown remains dark, almost mysterious, as if it holds stories of summers, of wind and dust, of centuries of silent existence.
Here, in this moment, nothing matters but the balance between visibility and concealment. The tree is both a point of orientation and a mystery. It reminds us that solitude does not mean lack, but space. Space to stand. Space to wait. Space to simply be in the first light of day.