I stared at the "picture" inside that frame. It wasn't a static one, of course, because high up in the canopy a faint breeze was stirring and white clouds bobbed across the blue, like so many duck targets at a state fair booth. I watched long enough until I saw a hawk glide across the frame. At night I do the same thing with bats, sit in the gloaming and watch for them to dart through the air. They're more visible when they cross our patch of sky.
It was a sad day when the great oak fell. But in the years since, I've grown fond of the space it left behind. Because of it, my eyes are more often drawn to the sky.
Above: a frame of a different sort.