Standing, birch is yearning, / Silent, sleepy spire, / Falling snow is burning / In its golden fire.
Sergej Jessenin, The Birch
In these days of mid-December, there are only few leaves left on the birch tree in front of my doorstep. They are so few now that each lonely leaf seems to shine with a bright light of its own: a handful of incandescent light bulbs scattered among the meager twigs, each radiating a small circle of gold.
The birch, a fully mature tree, grows in a patch of earth on the curb, between two parking…
Source: Transactions of Light