Winter is all about tree trunks here – veins reaching out of the earth, gulping life from the sky every instant the pounding heartbeat of xylem and phloem ebbs and flows, with a panic of leaves securing a great, greedy supply for the season’s larder.   And all this for what?  To stand in wait of resuscitation based not on instinct of muscle, but temperature and time.  Summer’s sap green thickets appear one dimensional blurring past the traveling window, but in winter the depths of the groves that spread unattended between fields and ponds and beige vinyl homes, is revealed.  Brazenly, they bare their potency in countless webs of twigs and branches and rising arteries, whose power together to move toward what is wanted, what is needed, is of one mind.