Where All The Trees Are Strange: Strange Paltypus(es) Part XIII

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After twelve years of living in the high desert, it's been a breath of fresh air to be back among the woodlands again with mist, and rain, and standing water.  When you've grown up in the forest, surrounded by trees, the leaves and the bark and the shadows sink deep into your soul in a way that can never completely be rooted out.  I remember one patch in La Mirada park where the trees grew close enough together that the formed a canopy.  There were times when I would take a stroll there just to feel the sunlight passing between the leaves.

Like I said, it's good to be back in the forest.  Still, even with all the greenery, there are moments of disconnect; like trying to remember an old tune and knowing that you've gotten part of it but it's not quite right.  I've thought for a bit, and I know what it is: the trees are all strange.  The trees are all strange.

Qui Transtulit Sustinet

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