November under Pole Mountain with naked Aspen.
The woods are still, though I know there is a gentle movement in the cool air along the treetops as I hear the whine of two aspen rasping against each other, irregular yet steady in its own rhythm of the woods. I stand by the wallow and look for recent elk tracks. There are none. The water is static and transparent. No one has stepped in to stir up the muddy bottom. Not today, at least. I wonder how long it may have been…
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