Striking Sycamores

My morning drive is strikingly beautiful: my own winding, mile-long road down our wooded hillside; climbing Route 50 to Ashby Gap then gliding down past the spectacular view of Ovoka Farm that changes with the seasons; through farmland, the town of Upperville, more farmland, and then into Middleburg. My daily drive renews my soul.

 

Now that the leaves have fallen from the trees, I'm struck each day by the solitary sycamores that stand sentinal along the road, their bark starkly white against the deep blue sky of morning. I wore this pair of earrings this morning in anticipation of this sight.

This pair is one of the many that I've bought from the Wood Thrush Studios Fimo clay artist who sells her wares at the Cook Forest Center for the Arts in Cooksburg, PA. The tiny trees can barely be seen as they dangle from my ears. But then, who notices trees, anyway? I pass hundreds--thousands?--on my way to work each morning.

Come summer, the trees will still be backdrops, like the sycamore trunks on the other side of the guard rail along our bank of the Clarion River. There are many species that I cannot name. But as I move through the world, I find joy recognizing those I know by name. Most modern humans no longer learn the names of the trees, the birds, the wildflowers. Perhaps if we knew more species by name, we'd care more about their preservation.