Driving back from Bellingham I always experience great pleasure and renewed wonder around lake samish, the daily amphitheater of H2O metamorphosis:
Down below, the lake's teal, silvery surface reflecting the subtle, veiled winter light,
distracting me from the ribbon of anthracite serpentine highway ahead.
And above, the mountains'huge hairy skulls,
with the Douglas firs tightly knit together like dreadlocks,
pointing their spikes, broken here and there by the steamy exhalations of moisture
pursuing their laborous toil of accumulation
that will eventually release the miracle of rainshowers,
thus slow feeding thousands of thirsty evergreen roots,
and coating the carpet of golden, vermillion and rusty maple leaves with a shiny varnish.
I've never seen so many trees and so much moisture in my life as here.
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