Late winter. Leaf-less birch-trees, in profile, reverse gravity: like, and yet unlike the braided rivers, they flow and branch upwards, fractally, sinuously, slowly reaching, inch by painful inch, but never achieving--the blue heights.
Sunlight crawls over the mountains, glances at the trunks and crowns--and look! they are glittering, purer than gold. The blue is now hopelessly jealous of their transformation in the light.
Birch, willow, spruce (not catching the light that I want to--maybe another day)
That is how it looks out my window, some mornings, but here are some paintings of birch trees in other seasons, and other lights, by the Ukrainian artist, Arkhip Kuindzhui:
On Valaam Island (1873)
The Birch Grove (1879)