11.21.14 Whispering, as Pines do, in the cold fall winds.

Into the clearing we looked, our breath billowing like so many tiny clouds. 
The forest smelled of Pine and seasons and composted life; soft as a cushion, beneath us. The trees towered straight and tall, far above our heads, clipped branches til the luxuriant soft needled tops.
 Whispering, as Pines do, in the cold fall winds.