The tree of inspiration, for the painter’s palate as well as the bliss of ones’ view. While trekking along the murky spring fields, while the snow is still here and there hiding and snoozing, but the birches are already shining their rosy soft spring branches and white bellies. To run the spring sap, rustle and color ones self. To tickle the feet of bees with it’s blossom pollens. To color the leaves soft grey and rustle, shuffle leaves in the wind that only can be heard by the gentlest of listeners. A flirt. Birch is a traveler that shows up anywhere and everywhere in the forest. Winding up with the pines, in a damp gulley in the middle of the forest, on the dry mounds with the ever well layered fir tree in her scarves and petticoats. Gone in to the world and come in as a guest. Showing off a little. Chattering amongst friends. In the thicket of its own, the close ones with the closest ones. Together. Present in the world, seeing the world.