When I look out of my window, I love to see the trees.

They live life to the fullest, by simply being. They are silent observers, watching the movements of time, and I like to imagine they have stored up wisdom, within the grains of their trunks and roots. Every twist and knot in them is strangely perfect in asymmetry, as if every shoot of growth were part of some greater pattern I haven't quite discerned. They are benevolent by nature, yet indifferent, providing nourishment free for the taking or leaving. They have a kind of purity to them--they appear to be pulsing pure life from their powerful stalks.

To my eye, they are a mystic beauty, they are a silent music.