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.
The Civic-mindedness of Trees
Wolsak and Wynn