Perhaps it never had been a great tree, but the first time I stopped and took the time to notice it, it seemed to be having great fun. “Hey there!” it seemed to be saying, waving its broken branches. I remember responding, “Hey!” and waving back.

From that sunrise on, I took special notice of this tree every time I passed it on my way to Goose Pond. It became kind of a guidepost and then, a kind of friend; a friend I christened, “Tim,” after Tim Burton, the director, producer, writer and artist known for his dark fantasy and gothic horror films such as “Edward Scissorhands” and “Beetlejuice.”

Over the years, Tim slowly lost branches, but still showed up even on a very foggy Easter morning March 2024:

Three months later, the Virginia creeper vine seemed to have taken a special liking to Tim.

Then one year later, in August 2025, the present administration announced plans to vacate BARC. I was heartbroken. Tim was as well, losing his last full branch.

Last week, on Halloween, I realized that I had never taken a photo that captured Tim’s other side, so I trekked through a wet field and captured one.

Before dawn the next morning November 1 — from a half mile away — I couldn’t see Tim and it wasn’t foggy. What had happened to him in less than 24 hours? I trekked as fast as I could to where he once stood and discovered this.

I cried, of course, and stayed there for 45 minutes, touching the fallen parts of Tim. I thanked him for being such a great guidepost, if not lodestar, then picked up a small piece of him and made my way home.

In her poem, “When Great Trees Fall,” Maya Angelou writes, “When great trees fall, rocks on distant hills shudder . . . when great trees fall in forests, small things recoil in silence, their senses eroded beyond fear.” When I went back to pay my respects to Tim’s remains this past Sunday, I did not recoil. Instead, I stood in silence. I stood in gratitude. Even though I would no longer see Tim in the distance, I knew he would still be showing me the way.