How does it happen, this moment. I knew a man who took photographs of trees. He’d show them to me like they were pictures of a naked lover. We’d sit at night in a darkened room with only one bright lamp lit and he’d slid them out, one by one. “Look at this one,” he’d whisper, “early spring, Blue Danube. And this? Autumn, Eau Claire Wisconsin.” and so on and so forth. We’d kill a couple bottles of wine while the crickets lustily sang, the depth of the forest growing all around us.