The woods. There’s no place I’d rather be on an overcast day as the season attempts to ring winter’s bell. Thick clouds obscure the myriad of colors that live in the forest on bright days, leaving behind a black and white portrait of bark and branches.
Only on these days can we discover the true bones on which the flesh of the woods hangs. The trunks are the ironwork of nature’s skyscrapers; the branches, aerial highways along which life perches and scampers.
Left to its own accord, the forest knows no direction except that of opportunity. Sometimes a roundabout journey occurs, not by choice but necessity.
The forest elders tower over young saplings, both with the same motivation — to live and spread. We impose descriptions — a tree with beauty, perseverance or character — that live only in our minds and collective wisdom.
I wonder if our true calling — our uniqueness as humans — is to observe, describe and appreciate this world in a way that it can’t do for itself.