The Aspens
I’ve always loved trees.
The crepe myrtles in the South – how they bloom like they’ve got something to prove. The old live oaks – how they sprawl and anchor, holding court over the land.
But then I met the aspens.
And something shifted.
Maybe it was how they moved together, like a chorus. Maybe it was the way the light caught their pale bark, flickering like candlelight in the breeze. Or maybe it was just their quiet – how they say everything without saying a word.
I couldn’t stop photographing them. Couldn’t stop walking into groves like they were sanctuaries. Each stand felt like it held its own breath, its own rhythm. And in them, I found my own.
This gallery isn’t just a collection of trees.
It’s a love letter to a forest that felt alive in ways I hadn’t expected.
They stood watch as we climbed the long, winding road up toward Owl Creek Pass – nowhere near as prevalent in town, but everywhere once the land began to lift. The higher we went, the more they gathered.
