The forest can be a dark place, blocking out the sun, capturing the light high in the canopy where only flying things bear witness. It is easy to let our imaginations run wild and create any number of horrifying fictions of what entities rest down there on the forest floor, ready to sense our fear and lurch forward with the heavy rasp of cartilage on stone.
It is into this grim appointment that we come across a stand of birch trees, white and stately and gleaming with an otherworldly glow.
Of all the trees in the spreading wood I find the birch to be one the most beautiful, an oasis of light exposing our fears as fantasy. The birch stands out like a visitor to the forest, something artificial placed there by forces outside our understanding.
Long ago, after we emerged from the sea, we lived our lives on the grasslands and in the trees of the forest. I wonder if those memories have followed us, unwitting companions whispering into the quiet air the story of our long and curious journey.
whoisfenton 