My daily walks have gotten more dangerous lately, as I find myself constantly craning my neck back, not looking in the direction I’m traveling, but rather up at the winter branches. What is it in the fine curved and jagged lines of branches on sky that pulls at me? Perhaps that chaos of line and shape is the Mother Tongue, the first written language. Imagine an ancient, laying on their back in a field of some now extinct dry grass, looking up and finding forms, patterns, the beginnings of messages, imagine that aha moment, them gouging those shapes in the earth with a stick. What can YOU read in the trees?