There's a stretch of road bordered by a wooden fence, some cross beams loose in their hewn notches. Behind it grow dozens of hushed birch trees, thin and clustered together like secrets.  They have only just feathered their tops with round caps of cheery green leaves and stand too close to one another, knocking branches in the wind as though they are giggling to one another over their unruly crop.

Where the road carves between them they grow outward, breaking down fence posts in their effort to retake the land covered over with asphalts and tracks of humanity.

It is in itself a light watercolor, a thickly layered impressionist's canvas, a somber twilight cinematic still. It is beauty.