When I wasn’t being stalked by leopards during my December holiday, I was bundu bashing through the vast plains in search of dead trees. Whilst I don’t deny the beauty of a lush leafy green bush; I find the stark bareness of the dead wood so unique; with the grace and beauty of ballet dancers suspended in various poses of dance.
Below is the dead tree as seen in the background of the above photo.
Below is my absolute favourite tree on the whole game farm.
She stands majestically on her own isle in the middle of a dam,
allowing feathered creatures to nest within her outreached arms.
A few minutes ago every tree was excited, bowing to the roaring storm, waving, swirling, tossing their branches in glorious enthusiasm like worship. But though to the outer ear these trees are now silent, their songs never cease.
Every hidden cell is throbbing with music and life, every fiber thrilling like harp strings, while incense is ever flowing from the balsam bells and leaves.
No wonder the hills and groves were God’s first temples, and the more they are cut down and hewn into cathedrals and churches, the farther off and dimmer seems the Lord himself.
~ John Muir ~