I came upon this dancer, broken and gone, yet graceful in her demise.
There is beauty yet in her decay, life in her death.
Highlighted in snow, one last bow, perpetual, until she collapses into decay.
There is beauty here, yet. Life in her decay.
A rotting corpse feeds the tiniest ones, which in turn feed roots and seeds, feeding stems and leaves.
A single tree no longer one, continuing to live on in many.
The magic, the beauty of the cycle.
Beauty, life, from one many, and on.
PS The day before this photo, when I first saw her, her arms held more snow and made a more striking scene. She was more obvious. But there yet is beauty here.