I lived, for a time, on the edge of the city, by the tracks, not far from the airport that took pieces out of me and sent them to far flung lands. I haven't forgiven it for that.

In the last months, I spent time on those tracks, overlooking the lake, and I spent time on the lake, too, thinking about the trains. But I knew I'd be leaving soon, because I usually am.

The road by the house wasn't remarkable. It led to a busy street at both ends, looping through a deceptively quiet barrio where I spent a year wondering what I was going to do with myself, now I had the time.

I picked up a sound recorder and started learning.

While I was watching the levels and pointing the microphone one way and another, searching for textures and atmospheres, I noticed a tree.

Every night, during my search for the perfect take of the little train crossing, I would see this tree and it would snap me out of my concentration, just for a minute. There was a story there, somewhere, but I hadn't figured out how to read it.

Then, one day, came the storm. You might have heard it on my recordings page. The lightning split that beautiful tree right down the middle and left it tortured and stripped of its bark. Most of the branches fell by the signal house, smashing the fence and blocking the road. The rest hung dangerously over the track and were removed to prevent an accident.

When I saw the tree after that, I felt like it never got a chance to tell me its story. The words were snatched away before I could hear them.

And for some reason, only then, I felt like taking a photograph. Perhaps to remember not to wait.

One second, there's all the time in the world, and the next, it's all over.

Your story dies with you. Make sure you tell it to someone.