it's not the quiet of the forest, the trees, the crows breaking free from the thin lines to be solitary and independent for only a brief and deceptive moment. it's not the slow leg of the moose in the snag struck like a tree to the earth against the enduring rock, or the moose's wrinkled unquestioning face. it's not the shadows beneath the pine like time or the white defined branches of the stripped bare maple in the lock of winter's brace. it's none of these things. and it's not my relationship to them. (how can you relate to something that is, when you are not?)
it's the uncountability of the parts.
it's the namelessness of the whole.
