An old oak stretches over the corner of the field where I practice shintaido in the mornings. When I was 9 or 10, it was split and burned by lightning. Half the tree was torn onto the ground, beyond repair. The surviving half was patched with concrete. The tree looked awkward with the skinny shorn surviving half growing from the large solid trunk.

Decades later, that tree is my partner in practice, especially with bo like today, or sword. The scarred swath of trunk makes it seem more formidable and vulnerable both. I'm alone but not alone.

As I left the yard this morning, a white-tailed kite sailed out from over the adjacent woods, circled twice, and returned north. All white. I'd never seen one before.