The only sound at the edge of the woods is the music of tinkling trees wearing garments of ice. Hung with crystals and wild garlands, the forest people glitter from here to there, and they seem to give off light. Branches chime and dance, and when the north wind moves through them in its glacial journey, they ring like bells—they ring like all the bells on earth singing together.
In early winter, there's a kind of Zen counterpoint between trees and wind, two wild, unbridled entities utterly independent in their contours and rhythm, but meticulously interwoven and seamless in their blithe harmonies.
Listening, the wandering scribe/photographer is captivated, and she cannot decide whether the wind and the trees are a chorus, a chamber ensemble or a full-blown symphony orchestra. Whatever they are, the music being played is sublime, and she hasn't a hope of describing it as it ought to be described. She decides to get out of her own way and just let her camera speak.
Happy November everyone!