Macro photography - Week 7 | Daily Photography Challenge | Macro Forest

Forest charm is the charm of life. Her unknown power is in her imperious charm of a harsh and tender mother who gives birth, nurses, who gives and protects us, inspires and bestows. What has she not given to people! The list of her graces, which begins with air and ends with water, is well-known and endless, but on her holiday, I don't want to talk about these graces: about air, water and trees, but about the beauty and magic of the "green world" , which do not enter into the production plans and accounts, of her imperishable gifts, of her wondrous mysteries. One mystery is, for example, the noises in the forest... Imagine: a summer evening in a pine forest. Silent trees frozen in slumber. Branches sunk in peace. Leaves resting after the sweltering heat. Suddenly you hear a buzzing sound. A hum of soft strings ringing above you like a song. You look around - not a soul anywhere! Who then produces the wondrous melody that intoxicates you? Where is she from? Is cool air seeping from the forest ceiling, or are heated waves rising from the ground, trapped by the membranes of the millions of pine needles? You look around - in vain! The invisible strings sing - they caress you, immerse you in their wonderful song, and after a while you forget - are these external strings or are they your internal strings, panting in unison with the silent trunks and hushed branches of the pine trees.

The sun went down, it got dark and the ringing disappeared and new, unexpected sounds came to your ears, sometimes gnashing of teeth, as if someone was being hanged, then stifled sighs, as if they were saying goodbye pine by pine, as pine by pine making love, as if drown pine with pine! Sighs are replaced by clawing, scratching by whistling that gradually dies down to a moan.

This is how the quiet forest sounds, and by beating it now to a complaint, then to fears and passions, it involves you in its complaints, heats you up with its passions, excites you with its dramas and makes you an accomplice!

The noises in the forest resemble its light shadows: they come unexpectedly, change hourly, and are also a game, only not a game of sounds, but of lights — as fickle as the noises and as capricious as the play with them. Light and shadow — that's the game! The long shadows stretch out—they turn... They gather, they combine, and in the shadowy half-darkness, they spread in the bed of the dying day, or they thicken to turn the forest into an abyss of ink. The shadows move with the sun, now short, now wiry, caressing you with cool tongues, stalking you or eavesdropping on you, pouncing on you like vampires or gently embracing you like nymphs.

The forest is inhabited by shadows - a world of shadows restless, lazy, lively, alive, frank and secretive, ridiculous, threatening, playing hide and seek with the sun. They circle the trunks of the trees with the eternal longing to be freed, forgetting that they are not trees, but the shadows of the trees, that if they are plucked, they will be instantly destroyed and melted away.
The forest does not only play in "black and white". If the morning sun bathes it in crimson, its foliage turns purple. If the sun hits it with ardour, the foliage turns gray as if taken from ashes. When the tired rays turn to sunset, the invigorated green darkens to a bluish-green, ready for "bedtime."
The green rises with the sunrise. It sets with the sunset. It thickens with the hours of the day to melt into the bruises of the coming evening, after it has bathed you with freshness, refreshed you with its color, rejuvenated you with its green beauty.
And the smells of the forest! Her scents!

Magical is the exciting smell of astringent green mixed with the smell of earth, of thyme, mint, borage, primrose, snowdrop, crocus, linden and lilac, with the smell of old leaves, of grass green and withered, of stones baked by the sun, of withered bark, on melted snow, old sleepers... Put, put more... in fact, there is nothing to put - try to smell and you will understand, not with your mind, but with your mere mortal nose, the life in a bouquet of forest aromas! The life that is born! Who is reborn! Who says goodbye to the world or celebrates his colorful celebration! The life that becomes earth (the leaves that rot or are rotten)! The earth that becomes life (juices alive)… Life in ebb, life in ebb! The life that pulses in smells is realized in aromas to show you, to remind you that you too are a part of the bouquet of the universe!

Every fold of the forest is life! He is not only in the swollen trunks, in the roots that gripped the earth, in the branches blowing towards the sky, in the leaves that drink the sunlight with their mouths to turn it into starch. Everything is life—wherever you turn! The lichen hanging on the branches is alive. The rusty spots of spores on the spikelets are alive, charged with the element of some future. The bark is a hiding place for the living, the leaves - both green and already dead - teem with invisible predators, bacteria, animals and beasts, producers of "humus". The land in the forest is a labyrinth of passages and holes, of secret hiding places inhabited by creatures fatefully connected to the forest of life and death. The forest is their cradle — whether they are small like the ant or mighty like "grandmother mezza", whether they are winged like the eagles or crawling like the worms! It's like: the forest is their universe!
Thinking how many destinies in the hands of the forest! How many dramas within its borders! What a harmony of contradictions! Diverse life seeths in the cradle-forest at every step—now peaceful, creative, now mercilessly fierce, heroic, now meek: sometimes fierce, sometimes tenderly loving, populated with silence, roars and songs, with screams of terror, with shouts of pleasure.
A forest world of magic and mystery, overflowing with music and scents, where philosophy is written on wooden tablets with the sigils of bark beetles and signed with the claws of the wind.

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Result will be announced by @visionaer3003
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