Blue, blue sky, like that of my childhood, that few are old enough to remember. A sky so crisp that if you could fold it, you might leave creases in the air.
It was afternoon and the golden-leaved canopy shimmered in the light atop their spindly masts. Aspen seem to love it here but the spare and unforgiving soil doesn’t treat them well. Few attain much height or girth. Perhaps they are more impressive in other regions.
But ours are delicate and beautiful, and I enjoy watching them play in the sky.