During my recent snowshoe outings to the Hochderffer Hills I found myself twice in the presence of what could only be described as a host of icy seraphs, their delicate, gossamer wings poised motionless in the chill air, just before the moment of flight.
Of course, they weren't really angels, just a grove of aspen trees coated in rime ice. But still, I couldn't help but compare their frozen, ethereal forms to that of angels perched atop the Hills.
Sometimes... sometimes... it's possible to see why the Scottish Highlanders may have thought of aspen as faerie trees, according them special powers, gifts of the Faerie Queen.
I've spent a year now with aspen trees, observed them transitioning from season to season, photographed them and wondered if, on some level incomprehensible to mammalian senses, they are aware of my presence among them. I'd like to think so, for I am conscious of them and their forms seem to actively invite the eyes to gaze upon them, to dance up their tall white trunks, to pass weightlessly across branch and twig, to delight in their beauty.
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