A thought.
When creation is as easy and natural as the pulse of his heart, practice becomes unnecessary. Creation becomes an idle hobby, a pleasure to partake in private. So here he comes to sit by the riverbank, between the patches of sunlight, underneath the warm rays obscured by the shadows of leaves above. Here he comes to think and to breathe and to create.
Thus, a breath; and he exhales chakra into a trembling sprout that buds from his upturned palm.
To say that it is only a thought which brings life to a fresh bud is untrue. It requires a precision with twining or tugging or tamping that makes the difference between lotus or rafflesia, yew or maple. With mokuton, the finest of details must be accounted for, down to the thickness of a flower's stem or the pattern of a leaf's veins. One must visualise perfectly even the grains of wood. The texture of petals. Sharpness of thorns. Shape. Colour. Odour. All.
The sprout grows in size. A leaf unfurls from its side. He wonders: could he create flora that he has not yet seen— that perhaps does not yet exist?
Light footsteps upon soft earth rouse him from his reverie; at once, he stands, enclosing the fluttering of life among his fingers.
Hashirama turns to greet the approacher. "Hello,—"