Like fine cracks in an ancient pottery vase the thin twiggy arms of the bare Aspen branches reach ever outwards seeking what we can't be sure. Wooden rivers that branch and divide time and time again, veins of tree life spreading across the clouded sky, brushstrokes of the seasons growth and the empty story of what they once held onto.
Gone are the last brilliant colours of change, winter is nearly upon us and the air is crisp on our skin. The dry leaves crunch below our feet as the birds fly south and the storm clouds roll in. Wrap yourself up their bareness seems to warm, the nights will be long and cold.