Copse Oak

Apologies: more trees.

I remembered to ask this tree if I could approach, as he likes the civilities and does not like me when my mind is scattered. He asked what I wanted to talk about and I said it was about how being with a tree differs from being with a bird. He said, when the bird whisper sings, she takes in all the world and creates a world; that is what I do with a tree. The tree is the medium who enables the process. I asked if the tree matters in himself in this process, and he said the tree is the world.

There was more in this conversation, and it's hard to hear because of the wind, but you can make it out.

The poplars all look very sick. They rise from clouds of blackthorn blossom.

On an ash, I saw the most lovely fungal body. In age, they turn pure black and then lose their shine. They are hard, like plastic. I have never seen them with brown before and never seen whatever earlier stage precedes this.

I watched a treecreeper and a pair of great tits. A buzzard wheeled above. A hare hid.