Where the red pines stand

The temperature was in the 50s today, so I took my dog for a walk through the neighborhood across the road from where I live.

The subdivision was cut out of a huge grove of red pine. While some of the properties have been totally cleared, several are banked by clusters of these tall, lanky trees, standing in straight rows. “Majestic” is the word that always comes to mind.

As we — my dog and I — walked along this road, the wind picked up. There is something very prehistoric — primal — about the sound of breezes blowing through the tops of these pines. It immediately took me to the wilderness, somewhere far from here, from traffic and houses, from the small riding mowers buzzing around yards as residents do their spring clean-up.

The rustling makes me, always, turn my face up to the treetops and the sky to take in that sound that is almost a sad moan but not quite. Mysterious might be the best way to describe it.

We were there but also a hundred miles away, up north somewhere, alone in the forest, but connected to everything.

On the edge of this stand there is the most lovely tree, like a queen guarded by her protectors. I was happy to see she was still there. More trees are being cut down with each new house that is built.

Progress, some would say.

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