Out in a distant woodland, in the far reaching areas of the scattered forests, there lives stories. Stories of hot summer days, short summer nights, fridge winter days, and snow blowing winter nights. Through the days, months, and years. From season to season the trees remain. Quiet, strong, living their years day by day.
Great forests are made of individual trees. Each one with its own story. Each with branches reaching skyward, some broken, bent, mangled by storms and the elements. Each with roots deep and holding strong to the earth.
I have always seen trees as individuals. Within great forest a single tree can stand out. Each having developed character, to the point of seeming nearly magical. What stories they must hold. Held tightly in the groves of their bark. In-between each ring of the trunks history resides.
We must never consider a forest or woodland jut a group of trees. They are magical cities that live in nature. Filled with individuals who all have unique stories to to share. We just need to understand their language and their stories will become ours.