Looking west down a small country lane just as the sun drops below the trees. The last rays warm the small areas near the horizon while the foreground descends into deep shadow. There’s something about the last light of the day that makes it that much sweeter. Especially when we’ve had so many long grey monotones for days.
Coming around the bend on this small country road in the late afternoon (when there’s sun) you’re greeted by a burst of light falling across the pines on the edge of the road.
The slight rise that passes for a hill in this low, flat landscape makes the tall pines appear even taller.
Pines are one of two trees that say home to me, the other being the coastal palmetto. And my strongest association with them isn’t initially visual. It’s the sound of the wind in them.
Pines sing and whoosh as the air moves across their thousands of needles. Palmettos click and clutter in a strong ocean breeze. Both take me back to childhood, listening to the sound of the wind in the trees at nap time or bed time.
Trees can mark our geography, our patterns of place in very fundamental ways.