Can you see the gentleman in the middle? How small he is compared even to the trunks of the fallen trees? This made me think of the Joyce Kilmer poem:
I think that I shall never see
a Poem as lovely as a tree.
A tree whose hungry mouth is 'prest
against the sweet earth's flowing breast;
A tree that looks at God all day,
and lifts her leafy arms to pray;
A tree that may in summer wear
a nest of robins in her hair;
Upon whose bosom snow has lain,
who intimately lives with rain.
Poems are made by fools like me,
but only God can make a tree.
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