The skin of trees flows like slow, living, lava. Each tall timber exuding its own expressive patternation.

A glacial spread of cracks and swirls, and scars, and cuttings.

Imprints of storms and seasons and sickness and cuttings with the deep respirations of browns and dark plum and yellows and reds. Outwards, upwards.

The rings might show it’s age, but it is the flowing skin that shows its life.

This small sampling of trees stood not 10 steps from each other.