Tres árboles desnudos. Sometimes you see something and it calls out to you. Walking down 57th Street in Manhattan I caught these trees out of the corner of my eye and had to photograph them. I love the expression of minimal monotone imagery. Emptiness . . . just fill in the spaces. No, it’s not the winter blues. No low moods from Seasonal Affective Disorder here, or a lack of sleep or depression. No light therapy or B-Complex vitamins are needed. It’s just winter, a lovely stark, bare cold season, which tends to call upon inner reflection in oneself before the arriving spring.

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“And it was at that age … Poetry arrived
in search of me. I don’t know, I don’t know where
it came from, from winter or a river.
I don’t know how or when,
no they were not voices, they were not
words, nor silence,
but from a street I was summoned,
from the branches of night,
abruptly from the others,
among violent fires
or returning alone,
there I was without a face
and it touched me.”

― Pablo Neruda