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Douglas Fir


It is easier to apprehend the sacredness of the Douglas-Fir in the
    mountains, where it is more rare.

Frequently alone in a meadow, surrounded by dropped fir cones,
    needles bestrewing its pedestal, its dais.

The Douglas-Fir can eschew standing in a fire which burns but does
    not consume when it interpellates a Charlton Heston or other
    zealot. Its aloofness is its sufficient interpellative act, cleanly
    articulate in the thin alpine silence.

The meadow is filled with this silence, Ukrainian dolls of it radiating
    from the tree, a choir of bumblebees in the goat-grazed grass:
    the tree the omega point of a labyrinth of columbine and saxifrage
    encompassing the entire valley and diagramming, in labelled
    SI units, each isobar of its beatitude.


Ken Howe

The Civic-mindedness of Trees
Wolsak and Wynn


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