Birch Entwined

Would I find a tree worth photographing before leaving later that morning?

I had spent three nights here; the days were shortening, and the sharp cold of the evenings seeped into my breakfast. This would be my final trip before winter set in. Hiking toward the cliffs just after sunrise, I found a quiet meeting point: granite and birch roots interlaced in the earth.

As I stood there, Robin Kimmerer's words came to mind. In Braided Sweetgrass, she recounts a conversation with Cheyenne elder Bill Tall Bull about Potawatomi cosmology, where rocks, mountains, water, and fire are all animate beings imbued with spirit. Remembering her moment of lament for lacking the native language, I recalled his gentle response as he patted his chest: "You don't have to speak the old language here. If you speak it here… They will hear you."

Alone, I realized I only needed to respect this place. In the silence of dawn, in the chill, I listened and heard birch and granite speaking— an invitation to witness what had always been.