The cool, upland air, flooding through the everlasting branches of the lively tree, as it casts a vague shadow onto the grasses ' fine green. Fresh sunlight penetrates through the branches of the tree, illuminating perfect spheres of water upon its green wands. My numb and almost transparent feet are blanketed by the sweetness of the scene, as the sunlight paints my lips red, my hair ebony, and my eyes honey-like. The noon sunlight acts as a HD camera, telling no lies, in the world in which shadows of truth are the harshest, revealing every flaw in the sight, like a toddler carrying his very first camera, taking pictures of whatever he sees. My head looks down at the sight of my cold and lifeless feet, before making its way up to the reaching arms of an infatuating tree, glowing brightly virescent at the edges of the trunk, inviting a soothing, tingling sensation to my soul. I feel it radiating into my blood, as my heart skips a beat. Soon, enlightened by a beating pair of wings effortlessly moving up and down, more fragile than the glass that once was sitting on the edge of the table. The fluttering pair of painted silk wings circles my front, as another pair comes into sight, creating a delicate breeze that brushes past my quilted cold cheeks. I manage to smile at the picturesque view in front of me, sending a warm satisfaction to my body as it sparks my heart and floods my eyes with tear-filled blur.
The freshly cut grass makes its way up to her nose, as her ears
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Show MoreThey look up from their lives, woman and animal, amazed to find themselves in the same place… Without taking his eyes from her, he twitches a little at the knee, then the shoulder, where a fly devils him. Finally he surrenders his surprise, looks away, and drinks… It lasted just a moment, whatever that is. One held breath? An ant’s afternoon?
The dim light of one in the morning, the moonlight from the open sky framed through the great window, touched here and there on the brass and the copper and the steel of the faintly trembling beast. Light flickered on bits of ruby glass and on sensitive capillary hairs in the nylon-brushed nostrils of the creature that quivered gently, its eight legs spidered under it on rubber-padded paws (Bradbury
Mary Frances “Francie” Noles is the main character of A Tree Grows In Brooklyn; a story about a poor second generation immigrant family living in Brooklyn during the early 1900s. Despite the fact Francie is a young child, she has been made to endure the hardships of living in extreme poverty. She is inquisitive, lonely, resourceful, curious, and honest. Francie’s endearing, childlike wonderment and compassion are contrasted perfectly by her analytical, wise-beyond-her-years perception of the world. Francie’s nativity protects her from the sadness and demoralizing conditions of tenement life, but the hardships she can understand are surmounted by her tremendous strength of will making her a likeable character.
The approach of autumn was well on its way. “Autumn’s hand was lying heavy on the hillsides. Bracken was yellowing, heather passing from bloom, and the clumps of wild-wood taking the soft russet and purple of decline. Faint odors of wood smoke seemed to fit over the moor, and the sharp lines of the hill fastnesses were drawn as with a graving-tool against the sky.” As Ellie drove down the road she was much more aware of all her surroundings.
In the novel Speak, by Laurie Halse Anderson the author uses the ‘Tree’ motif to show that Melinda’s growth though the whole book because In the first quote, Melinda is using the tree to represent how she feels as if nobody can see her. In the second quote she shows how she feels out of place. In the third quote she talks about how with some improvement, the tree could be better. Just like how with some improvement she could be better. In the beginning of the novel, the motif of Tree represents how Melinda is develops as a human, deals with her rape and all its aftermath, and discovers who she is without other people to identify her, her trees also become more complex.
I stand tall like the pines surrounding me, my body craving the sun, hoping to feel the warmth of the rays on my skin while the presence of the forest engulfs me. As the mountain chickadees begin their daily call, I feel the mountain air fill my lungs bringing me back home with each inhale. A slight breeze tugs at my hair and sends my soul tumbling to the worn trails leading back to the days I spent growing with my family in the wilderness. My parents first met in college while working at REI, they got engaged on a backpacking trip, were married in the sawtooths, and spent their honeymoon biking across southwestern Washington. When I was nine months old they took me on my first bikepacking trip; I rode behind them in a canary yellow trailer,
In Sarah Orne Jewett’s piece, “A White Heron”, tension is continuously built to give a sense of meaning to a young girl’s climb. Her success hinges on her ability to come to and understanding with the wise old tree, so the evolution of their relationship is dramaticized. Even at the start of the piece, the tree’s presence is felt. The author uses personification and polysyndeton to give it qualities similar to an old, wise, tired grandfather who has just encountered something that he’s never seen before. It has outlived the whole forest of “pines and oaks and maples”.
The lights on the christmas tree shone different colors across the faces of the children as they roasted marshmallows in the fireplace. Half empty hot chocolates sat beside them. How the Grinch Stole Christmas played over the television set, not quite drowned out by the children's laughter and discussions of what presents they would be getting the next morning. The man, in this moment, couldn’t help but notice just how beautiful his wife was. The way her nose crinkled up, when she laughed with the children, the way she snuggled closer to him while watching the movie.
“A cool breeze came up behind us, sending shivers along the spines of the mesquite trees.” The text contains elements of the unconscious process of shivering and allows Taylor to project her inner feelings onto the landscape. The language mirrors how Taylor’s mind works and shows this by sending “shivers along the spines of the mesquite trees” as well as up her own spine, almost personifying the trees. Kingsolver’s descriptions of the natural landscape, shows her consciousness of the environment.
The wind whipped past my head as I pushed myself faster. I could see the break in the trees up ahead, the sun shining on the poppy field through the small opening. I ran as fast as my legs would travel, my heart beating out of my chest. I could hear the footsteps coming closer and closer. My lungs were about to give out, my hips were burning from the running and my feet were starting to swell in my boots.
I looked out from the passenger side window as we pulled into our parking spot. The trees were beginning to go bare in the frigid October weather, and the ground was covered in their dry, crispy leaves. The four of us were going on a haunted hayride tonight, a popular past-time for season. We clambered out of the car and left our bags behind. It had rained the day before, and it made the ground beneath us soft with mud and trampled leaves.
This kind of description shows the reader how impressive and majestic this tree is, as it puts a vivid picture in the reader’s mind as something that is not only unrivaled in terms of altitude, but it can also be seen from the sea, which highlights its stature as a wholly independent object. Old as it is, this pine is strong, and does not need any assistance from the ecosystem surrounding it. The importance of this giant tree, along with other details that make the story more interesting, is what dramatizes this young heroine’s adventure.
Small, stagnant puddles, on the uneven planks of timber wood reflected the dark, brooding sky above - rarely disturbed by the callous slices of moonlight seeping through the clouds, creating a specular reflection through a ripple in the languid water. Surrounding the lake, lay a rigid, pine forest, which stretched far past the mountainous boundaries - rising high, around the solitary lake. A death-like mist pervaded through the trees enveloping them in a gelid, cutting fog. A silent, lonely willow shivered as the still, biting air engulfed its aged branches in an icy cage and suffocated its stiffened lungs, causing each freezing breath to drag. Crusted leaves stacked one on top of the other as
As I stepped out onto the field, my gaze drifted upward. The sky was speckled with millions of tiny, glittering stars. We were so isolated out here that even the Milky Way was visible. I had never seen it in person before. That’s just one of those things that only happens at camp, the most magical place I know.
Bits of nature—water, wind, trees, shadows—are weaved into every part of her childhood. She says that, day by day, “cool morning breezes swept freely through [her] dwelling” and that “the mere shifting of a cloud shadow in the landscape near by was enough to change [her] impulses” (Zitkala-Sa 75). Zitkala-Sa’s attachment to land and nature is most obvious near the end of her work, when she compares herself to a tree while reflecting on the effects of her eastern boarding school education. She says, “Now a cold bare pole I seemed to be, planted in a strange earth” (112). Trees are not meant to be “shorn of [their] branches” and “uprooted,” as she was, but are supposed to remain where they were “planted” (112).