The smell of moisture clings to the air as I walk into this little alcove. It must have rained the night or morning before I decided to journey into this spot. The cool air stings my exposed arms like needles, but it isn’t as painful as one would think. The chill in the air is a sign of change– change of color and season. Indeed, wandering an eye across the canopy of the forest demonstrates these changes. The yellow leaves of the American Beech and the dulling green foliage of the Sugar Maple smile and wave in the breeze at my moving figure. At contrast to these changes, the green needles of the Eastern White Pine and Eastern Hemlock stand still, mocking the cruel progression of time. Even through the crunching of orange, fallen pine needles and yellow-brown leaves, the trees stand in rebellion to the adjudicator of life in time.
