For the Love of the Snowgum

The parrots screech, the currawongs flee. The sentinels stand, with their fist of iron hold. Upon the hill they stand. The twisted sentinels stand as it bows to the wind. With its arms stretched out to the foreboding storm clouds across the range. The foreboding dark sky dances with the branches in all their twisted glory as the moan of the wind sings its lonely song. With its twisting and swaying, the trees yet again stand before their shaper. As they have always done with the rain and sno...