I have a tree right outside my bedroom.

It stands outside my window, its palms reaching meters from my bed. When it’s rainy and breezy, my tree is a percussion instrument. There’s only one on earth like it. A thousand tiny hands drumming and shaking; a symphony of one.

Each night, two paths present themselves to me. Sleep deeply and soundly by tightly sealing the window or leave it open to fully absorb the score, drifting in and out of rest until sunrise.

I never close it.