THE FOREST
Beneath the canopy, the forest keeps its own ancient time. Trees that stood long before us still hold the weight of storms, seasons, and footfalls that fade into memory. Light drifts differently here, sound softens, and the world slows to the quiet rhythm of moss, bark, and wind. This gallery traces that old pulse — the patient way the Northwoods endures, remembers, and breathes — offering a glimpse into a place where nothing is truly still, yet nothing is ever in a hurry.
After months beneath the weight of snow, the land exhales. The grass, pale and brittle, emerges like the bones of winter—flattened, tangled, and glowing gold under the starlight. Bare trees reach upward, their branches etched against a sky still cold and vast. This fleeting moment, caught between seasons, is a quiet reminder that even in decay, the earth prepares for renewal.
BONES OF WINTER
pine lake CATHEDRAL
The fire rose like a hymn beneath the ancient pines, sending sparks through the still air of Pine Lake. Every flame painted the trunks in gold, each ember drifting upward as if drawn toward the stars. The night was deep and wordless—only the crackle of wood and the sigh of wind through needles. Out here, surrounded by wilderness and shadow, even a small fire feels like a heartbeat—reminding you that warmth and light still belong to the quiet places.
HARVEST OF GOLD
The Harvest Moon has long carried a weight of legend—its brilliance said to guide farmers gathering the last crops before frost, and hunters moving under its silver watch. Some traditions called it the Blood Moon, others the Sanguine Moon, a lantern for journeys and endings. In this image, that same pale light spills across a birch tree in late autumn, its crown still clinging to gold. The leaves burn softly against the dark, while the stars scatter above like seed cast into the sky. It is a moment where season, story, and starlight converge—October’s brief fire held in the quiet glow of the Harvest Moon..
Beneath the cold stars, the forest burns by design.
This fire is no accident, no careless spark leaping wild into the night. It’s deliberate—a chosen blaze, meant to clear away the dead and dying so the living can return. Each fallen branch and hollowed trunk feeds the flames, offering itself to a cycle older than memory.
As the heat rises and smoke curls skyward, the line between destruction and creation blurs. This is not the end of the forest, but a rebirth disguised as ruin. By morning, only ash will remain, scattered like seeds across blackened soil, waiting for rain to call them back to life.