Upon Surveying trees in winter, intellectual escape methods come to mind. A purple-tinged haze lies resting atop the canopy of a Seattle grove; the grove lives two miles distant aloft in the geology. Simplicity is a cliche, and is a tempting one at that. This coniferous gathering would be easily explained away by the words, "simple beauty". After genuine observation, there is a foreboding and an ominum in that haze and mesh of branches, neither of which can be accurately dismissed as "simply", (insert adjective). The glorious saturated chromaticism in the sky is hid from that glen under said canopy. The little trolls and children seeking shelter who find their way into it and do not feel like leaving must sacrifice being shone upon by the setting sun, and even most of the risen sun.

   Nature is never spent

  Now as the sun is losing its hold on the attention of earth's eyes, the lights of activity cleave through the once-dimming haze still in happy recline atop the trees. This foggy mass now takes on the role of refraction and reflection and magnification. As I approach the natural atrium, light from the resolute streetlamp, guarding gallantly the forest entrance, appears as a solid mass which proceeds from said lamp and assumes form in the air, revealing the haze to be a beautifully complicated and messy coalescence of formerly thin white clouds.

Watching a forest at sunset isn't "simple". Just because it all works together does not mean it is a beautiful "simplicity".