Photo Story: Laird’s Tree Farm, Christmas Eve, 2026
The farmer said it took them all, bore through their core, drove the sap outwards. Needles blackened and fell. By the time it was understood, the damage was too great. He scooped a mound of needles cradled in snow, like whiskers in a porcelain sink, ran his glove along a crusted trunk. If it takes the sugar maples, he said, the dance is over.
It was too late to drive anywhere else. We were trying to do something nice together, forge a tradition. We drove back through the indigo twilight with the car’s heater blasting, the air roaring with turpentine.
Photographer: Crusty Da Klown
I love this simile: “like whiskers in a porcelain sink”
The story captures so much emotion. Well done!