The sycamores I understand, each scale of their weathered bark is fit for a peelin’ from childish hands. Perhaps here and there a jackknife scratches into the tree skin an overture of young love. A rusted nail once precariously an iron protuberance is now enveloped by the same bark and it is sinking into the torso of the green and brown sycamore.  The nail’s head now reminds me of an awkward bellybutton as the skin of the tree stretches to accommodate its mass before the tree’s invisible maw can work its iron victim from sight. It is a slow process and the casual observation of the sinking nail will give little up to the viewer, but over time and over repeat returns, the nail’s “progress” can be seen as a testament to the march of all things.