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SYLVAN GROVE
Traveling just before sunset on a thinly overcast day, a tree farm appears mirage-like in the bare Oregon desert. A thousand trees all the same age, all trimmed uniformly, their surreal presence not totally abated even on close approach. From one angle they seem randomly arranged, impenetrable; but turning slightly, orderly rows emerge. Formal pathways paved in last summer’s leaves now lead across the expanse of trees. Deep in the core, the pale bark glows silvery in the dim, even light. Then, approaching the far edge of the woods, the sun emerges just before disappearing below the horizon, burning the silver glow into vivid contrasts of light, shadow, and silhouette.
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