Dancing Trees

by Igor Zenin

At the hour when mist still clings low over still water, two bare trees catch the rising sun and become something else entirely — limbs flung wide, trunks arched mid-leap, as if the nymphs the old Eburones swore lived in every forest simply forgot to become trees again before dawn. It's the oldest trick backlight knows: turn a silhouette into a gesture, and let the viewer's imagination do the rest. Half pagan reverie, half a forest being exactly what a forest is — the dance is wherever you decide to see it.