I stood in a grove of Aspen trees one clear night in early spring. I felt my feet on the ground. I felt myself surrounded by their quiet grace. I listened to my own breath, listened for their breath. I looked up through their naked branches, leaned into a smooth, white trunk, saw the moon a little more than half full, a few stars twinkling, and I knew deep gratitude for this Earth home, for the silent unending work of the trees.