The land lies still and quiet. On the floor of this grove, fresh branches poke through a soft blanket of snow. They appear like deer antlers, shedded after the fall.
These trees are self pruning. They shed lower branches that no longer receive light. Each scar creates dark eyes that we revered as watching over us at night.
Nutrients are sent to the roots, where they reproduce and create clones. Each clone, surviving together, spans from less than an acre to over a hundred in size. While solo trees live less than 150, clones can survive tens of thousands of years, spotted by identical traits.
Each grove contains one or several, and all turn color in sync. These antler-like-branches wanted to mingle. I envisioned them in a ray, but they wanted to stand upright.
As I wove them, strong gusts toppled them to their knees. The wind urged for reinforcements, each branch relying on one another to hold each other up. As I balanced the branches, they met in the middle, in a teepee-like-shape. If one fell, they all went with it. In it together, relying on each other for strength.
The wind wasn’t there to destroy. Just like the eyes, it offered a helping hand to build something in which we can rely. These branches have let go of the old to welcome the new, mastering the art of conservation, and caring for the forest so it lasts a long time.