As dusk begins to move into my woods, the trees take on the winter sun reflecting amber light. My trees catch this light as it moves up the ridge in small incremental steps. Other winter trees stand in dusky shadows adding contrast to the now-amber hardwoods.
I feel that winter has an ancient story to tell. The bare trees allow the wind to sing like sirens as it twists through the branches. Perhaps the wind is trying to tell us its story.
I was raised in a state full of hardwoods. I became imprinted with this type of environment. I personally cannot live in an area without lots of trees. I know because I have tried.
My woodland is young -- full of beech, maple, ash and oak plus other types. A few older grandmotherly types are inter-mixed with the young trees. They are remainders from the previous generation of trees which were cut by settlers of this land. A creek runs through this woodlands where children play in the summer and find fossils in creek stones. Ancient land.
We are all ancients by our similar chemistry -- both trees and humans --we are telling our stories everyday to each other. What do you think the stories are?