The trees are everywhere, digging deep roots into the swamp, seeming aged and ageless both, swaying in the wind's caress. They breathe deep and let loose an ancient harmony through the grasses, the leaves, the roots and shrubs of the bog. They join and collide and harmonize, a melody as old as the earth, as young as the breeze, fresh and green and a part of the trees as the trees are a part of the swamp; they join and mesh to become one, the trees that sing.