Fungi Functions

Fungi are one of the most fascinating life forms on Earth—as well as one of the most important. They can be unicellular (like yeasts and molds) or multicellular (like mushrooms). They constitute their own taxonomical kingdom, unique to all other life forms, although they are more closely related to animals than plants.

Some of the most valuable fungi are those that form a symbiotic relationship with plants—especially trees. Fungi do not contain chlorophyll, so they cannot make their own food, which is why they have created a mutually beneficial bond with plants. They receive food (in the form of sugars) from plants and provide valuable services in return.

Fungi are vital for the existence of trees. They decompose dead leaves into compost— creating invaluable nitrogen in the process. Fungi absorb chemicals and pollutants such as heavy metals—thus protecting trees. They accumulate water, helping trees to survive droughts. They produce hormones that encourage new root tips, thereby controlling a tree's growth. Trees communicate with each other through their roots, using fungi to link them in shared networks (sometimes called the “wood wide web”).

In a healthy forest there is a wide variety of tree and fungi species, so they mix and match. If one species of fungus dies, trees will search for another species. Likewise, if a species of tree dies, fungi will search for another kind of tree to link to. When humans disturb a forest, these exquisitely balanced symbiotic relationships can become severed—harming both trees and fungi, and thus the health of the woods.

Underground fungal networks can be huge. They can span thousands of acres. The total length of mycelium (the stringy underground part of the fungus, containing fine white filaments) in the top few inches of forest soil is some 270 quadrillion miles (450 quadrillion km) long—which is about half the width of our galaxy! One forest fungi in Oregon is about 2400 years old and weighs over 600 tons! Some one-third to one-half of all the living mass in soils is fungi. That’s pretty heavy-duty importance!

So, why should we be aware of—let alone concerned with—the millions-of-years-old cooperative relationship between fungi and plants? To begin with, that relationship and its crucial importance to the health of the ecosystem is being threatened by human activity. If this symbiotic dependence is broken, neither trees nor fungi will fare well. They cannot thrive—or even survive—on their own.

How are we humans disturbing this delicate balance? When logging operations invade a forest, that symmetry is destroyed. Clear-cutting an area of trees isolates the fungi, which cannot exist alone. The remaining fungi and trees become ill. Monocropping destroys the balance between numerous kinds of fungi and plants. Some one-third to one-half of the living mass of healthy soils is fungi. By damaging either plants or the fungi, that balance is destroyed. 

One scientific projection estimates that, by 2050, more than 90% of the planet's soil will be degraded, if we don't change our ways. By focusing our attention on above-ground ecosystems, we are in danger of ignoring the below-ground role of fungi. We are upsetting a balance that has been established for 500 million years.

Forest Air Quality—Part 5

Most of us know that all green vegetation absorbs sunlight and carbon dioxide in its photosynthetic process, and emits oxygen as it manufactures various sugars and carbohydrates. All animal life on Earth gets its energy this way. Without photosynthesis, without plants, there would be no animals.

The carbon dioxide that trees inhale gets turned into carbon—creating the structure of a tree. A mature tree can store up to 22 tons of CO₂ in its trunk. That's why there is so much attention put to planting trees: to counter all the CO₂ that we humans are discharging. Unfortunately, modern forest management sequesters far less CO₂ than a natural forest, because soil disruption has prevented the necessary role of tiny soil critters. Additionally, only recently was it demonstrated that old trees grow fastest and thus absorb the most CO₂.

Due to trees’ exchange of CO₂ for oxygen, forest air is fresh; but not just because trees exhale oxygen. Leaves filter out small particles like soot, pollen, dust, acids, and toxic hydrocarbohydrates and nitrogen compounds. In addition to oxygen, trees emit phytonicides, which possess antibiotic properties. This makes me feel good about living in an area surrounded by hundreds of acres of forest. These benefits do not occur in human-planted forests, however, because many of those trees are not planted in the appropriate locations that Nature selects, so they are not as robust as in a natural forest stand.

The benefits of people living in a forested area have been measured. Human blood pressure is lower in a stand of trees than in open grassland. Older people's lung capacity and elasticity of their arteries improve, when they enter a forest. Yet forest air is not always rich in oxygen. During the day—when photosynthesis is active—a stand of trees will release up to 3 tons of oxygen per square mile; enough for 10,000 people. But at night the oxygen level drops significantly, as photosynthesis pauses.

Quaking aspen trees are unique, in that they can photosynthesize on both sides of their leaves, rather than just the top surface, as is the case for other deciduous trees. Think about that, the next time you observe an aspen's leaves fluttering and flapping in the wind—exposing top and bottom to the sun.

Because of this double-sided photosynthesis, aspens are an excellent pioneer species—they move into new areas and grow quickly. The downside is that herbivores enjoy the taste of sugary aspen leaves. (Remember the comeback of aspens in Yellowstone National Park, when wolves were reintroduced and reduced the elk population.) Aspen trees respond to overgrazing by expanding their root system, so a single tree may come to extend over a wide area. In Utah's Fishlake National Forest, a single aspen tree spans across 100 acres (40 hectares). It has grown some 40,000 individual trunks over a time span of thousands of years!

This completes a five-part series of fascinating facts about trees and their beneficial effects on us... from the book The Hidden Life of Trees: What They Feel, How they Communicate (2015), by Peter Wohlleben, who worked for many years as a forester in Germany.

Tree Life, Sickness, and Death—Part 4

As I wrote earlier, trees coordinate their production of seeds. They literally plan a year ahead, so they all reproduce at the same time, in order for them to mix genes. Because of this, same species of trees are far more genetically variable than animals.

Each tree in a forest grows unequally—due to the luck of location. Every individual receives different amounts of water, light, and nutrients. Unable to move to a more advantageous location, a tree does its best where its seed happened to fall. Because of the inequality of location as well as robustness of trees, they cooperate with one another, and strive to equalize their differences. They literally protect each other.

A tree's roots are like its brain. Its experiences and memories are stored in its roots. Roots transmit chemical and electrical signals to the above-ground tree body—very much brain-like. As roots wend their way through the soil, they alter their course—depending on what they encounter; whether it be obstacles like rocks and other plants’ roots, or rich, moist soil. Is this behavior not a type of intelligence?

For a few hundred miles inland from the ocean, moisture is supplied by the ocean's water vapor. Farther inland, however, another mechanism takes over—one provided by trees. The first deserts tend to occur at this distance from the shore, unless trees pull moisture from the ground, transpire it into the air, and create clouds and rain. This is exactly the mechanism of the rain forest. That's why, when large tracts of tropical trees are cut, the area will dry out—leading to savannas and even deserts.

Our skin provides us many crucial functions: it (1) holds in fluids, (2) keeps our organs inside, (3) blocks pathogens, (4) provides tactile sensations, (5) allows us to grow, and (6) sheds. Bark is a tree's skin—it provides the same functions. As a tree ages, its bark grows increasingly wrinkled, as does our skin. Older trees experience a thinning of their crown—just as our hair thins. Their growth slows and they become more spread out; the tree’s bark cracks and allows disease and damaging fungus to invade. It's on its way to death.

A sick tree may put out suckers at its base, while a healthy tree grows primarily at the top. Low leaves on suckers cannot get enough light, and so produce less sugar and nutrients. Saplings from recent seedlings will try to outcompete the older tree’s suckers.

Many other threats imperil trees. Besides the processes of aging bark splitting and allowing various invasions, many alternative kinds of bark damage may occur—from fire, lightning, and due to various animals. The bark assaults open the way for insects, harmful fungi, bacteria, and viruses to invade—just as what happens when we get a cut in our skin. Storms fell many trees. Last and worst: human logging and pollution are major existential threats. It is a testament to the hardiness and resilience of trees, that more death doesn't occur.

Healthy Tree Growth and Symbiosis with Others—Part 3

Over most of the world, parents—especially mothers—spawn babies and then watch over them, until they can fend for themselves. For some species—primarily those who create thousands of babies, such as fish—the mother deposits eggs and is gone when the offspring hatch. They’re on their own. For others, there may be a lengthy development phase, during which babies mature and learn how to survive. Human newborns require a decade or two before they are able to fend for themselves. Climax trees in a forest require even longer; a baby's dependency phase on its parents may last for several decades.

A mother tree may have numerous offspring sheltered on the forest floor beneath her, although she will hog some 97% of the sunlight, leaving a measly 3% to filter down to them. Under these low light conditions, they grow very slowly—but that's part of Nature's strategy, as they gradually prepare for full maturity. A baby tree's leaves are much larger than mom's, in order to capture as much of that wee bit of light as possible. Their trunks grow extremely slowly; creating bark that is tough and smooth, to ward off disease and insects.

Baby trees photosynthesize lots of sugar to foster their growth, but this also makes them scrumptious to herbivores. In Yellowstone National Park, elk became plentiful during the first part of the 20^th century, as wolves were killed off. Aspen and other species of trees suffered, as their saplings were mostly consumed. The reintroduction of wolves in the 1960s saw a reduction in the elk herds—allowing aspen and other tree babies a better chance to mature. The Yellowstone forest and streams are much healthier now.

When mother trees die and fall, the saplings—having waited all those years—are prepared and ready to quickly respond. A race for the sun ensues. The healthiest and fastest saplings succeed, while their less-robust siblings die. As they shoot for the sky, the straightest trees do best. They are balanced and can withstand winds better. Curved trees are less strong and resilient. Trees with forked trunks are weak and may split and then be susceptible to disease. These are Nature's ways of building healthy and vigorous forests.

Another aspect of a healthy forest is the symbiosis that occurs between trees and massive underground structures of different species of fungi. The fungus can be huge—up to several thousand years old and extending over thousands of acres. They are the largest living organisms in the world. Their relationship with trees is usually a case of mutual cooperation. Fungi provide water and nutrients to trees, ward off bacteria, and filter out harmful heavy metals. In response, trees feed sugar and various other carbohydrates to the fungi.

But the exchange is not always fully equal, as the fungi may emit hormones that induce a tree's growth to their advantage. Selfish fungi may even consume up to one-third of a tree's production of sugar from photosynthesis. That said, tree-fungi interdependence is just one example of Nature's web that maintains a flourishing forest.

Trees Interact with Their Environment—Part 2

Trees are like any other living entity, in that they interact with their environment in many ways. A tree must deal with threats and respond to advantageous events, as well as cooperate with other trees—all in a process of contributing to a healthy ecosystem. All of this in an attempt to strive to prosper, at least until it successfully procreates; which is the goal of all life on Earth—all possess a drive to perpetuate their species.

Trees intimately connect with each other—both through their root systems, and by pheromones and other chemicals that they release into the air. Their root connections form vast underground structures that are equal in size and mass to what we see above ground. Collectively, a grove of trees form a kind of interdependent superorganism—much like an ant or termite colony, in which every member plays a cooperative role in the wider ecosystem.

The complex interconnections between trees—both through their roots and by exchanging airborne chemicals—allow them to cooperate in resisting invasions of herbivores; both insect and mammal. When attacked, a tree will quickly send chemicals coursing through its trunk and limbs, that spoil the taste of its leaves. It will also emit chemicals into the air that float to neighboring trees—warning them to similarly defend themselves. Sometimes a tree will excrete pheromones into the air, to attract beneficial insects to prey on its invaders. Human-cultivated plants do not possess these defenses, so farmers often turn to insecticides.

Trees signal surrounding members of their same species to coordinate the simultaneous release of seeds. If they all set free their seeds at the same time, the abundance ensures that some seeds will survive hungry mouths. I have written before of the masting process of oaks, wherein all of them drop an extraordinarily massive crop of acorns every few years, in a cooperative manner. Acorn lovers such as squirrels and deer cannot possibly eat them all, thus securing a good crop of oak seedlings the following year.

Trees grow a trunk only as strong as needed—saving energy to put into foliage. In a forest, trees depend on each other for mutual support, to withstand winds. If a few trees in a stand are logged, the others will suffer because they may not have strong enough trunks; or due to the new access to sunlight, which can upset a tree's balance between its trunk and its foliage. A healthy forest depends on a healthy balance between all of its members—forming a vast, interconnected web of life.

Treasuring Trees—Part 1

I am fortunate enough to live in a rural environment that is heavily populated by trees—of all varieties and ages. Part of my land was once farmed, about 100 years ago, and then abandoned to Mother Nature's succession process, wherein the first wild growth—weeds—gets replaced by short-lived saplings, followed eventually by long-lived, majestic towering trees. Thus, in my immediate environs, I can enjoy the dynamics of the forest's initial rebuilding cycles, as well as the grand, soaring trees of a climax forest.

Immediately surrounding our small, domesticated clearing—which required only the removal of several interim short-lived pine trees—are towering trees that shade us and inspire respect. They possess a natural beauty that I liken to the spires of cathedrals. They bend and sway in the wind, reminding me of green-clad monks, as they bow in blessing.

I have become acutely aware of the blessings that they provide for us, besides their loveliness, which evokes wonder: they expire life-giving oxygen, as they inspire and capture our carbon dioxide, transforming it into trunks, branches, and leaves. When they die and tumble to the ground, trees offer one last gift of firewood that will provide us a cozy experience on winter nights.

I love to watch and listen to the wind blow through the trees. I can hear distant waves of wind approach and flow by, as I observe branches swinging to and fro in response. Sometimes an individual limb or leaf will flutter in isolation, as the remainder of the tree stands still—as if that leaf alone has been excited by the passing breeze and is waving to it, as it blows through.

I sometimes ponder how similar I am to my brother trees, despite our obvious differences—and how our existence complements each other. Besides our exchange of atmospheric oxygen and carbon dioxide, I appreciate how trees refresh the air in so many ways, and how their photosynthesis transforms the sun's energy into food that most all life on Earth depends upon.

We each are composed of many of the same organic molecules. The water and blood surging through my body is similar to the sap flowing through the tree's capillaries. My bones provide the same function of support as does a tree's strong trunk. We both—along with all lifeforms—are a component of the cycle of life, as we die, to become part of follow-on lifeforms. We come into being, exist for a while (although a tree dwarfs my lifespan), and finally become sustenance for the life that follows. These thoughts help me to comprehend the deep connectivity between all life forms.

Over the next four posts I will describe some of the fascinating facts about the lives of trees, mostly taken from the book The Hidden Life of Trees: What They Feel, How they Communicate (2015), by Peter Wohlleben, who worked for many years as a forester in Germany.

Tumble Those Trees?

I have a neighbor who decided to take action against some of his trees years ago—an action that I could never bring myself to do. I'm sure he disapproves of my not following suit. His action? Cutting down a dozen or more mature trees that surrounded his house. In contrast, I love the dozen or so trees that surround and lean over my house; I'd never cut them down!

Why the difference? Don does not dislike trees; his motivation was to avoid ever having them blow down and damage his home. He lives in the woods as I do, and enjoys his trees. He just doesn't want to risk one toppling onto his roof. Don is also a guy who likes a tidy yard. Each fall he assiduously sucks up dead leaves with a big machine and deposits them off in the woods. He definitely doesn't like dead leaves carpeting his lawn. By cutting down his trees, he has no falling trees or their leaves to deal with.

So by leaving my trees to stand tall, I am taking an unacceptable risk in Don's eyes. I like the pleasure that trees bring me: their beauty and their shade. I have written on this blog before about sitting in the outdoor tub, looking up and revering the trees, while fully aware that if one takes a notion to fall on me, I'm dead.

This contrasting approach to handling trees reminds me of the teachings of many past and present philosophers, who pondered the propensity of humans (and all critters, for that matter) to maximize pleasure and avoid pain. We constantly make choices that are aimed at enjoying things, while evading suffering. Don doesn't get immense pleasure from his trees, and he is certainly determined to avoid the pain of the expense of roof repairs. His choice is to clear out the trees. I take great pleasure in my trees, and recognize the pain that they could cause me, but choose to take the risk.

One of the crucial factors going on here is one's assessment of the probability of risk. Both Don and I enjoy and get pleasure from trees. But while he is not willing to chance a fallen tree, I am. I regard the probability of a falling tree as low enough that I need not worry about it. So it's a case of how we read the probabilities and how we weigh that against our pleasure/pain. We each make our personal decision.

As I pondered this contrast between Don and me, it occurred to me that a central reason why insurance companies exist is to allow us to take pleasure in those things we enjoy, while the companies step in to decrease the pain we get when bad things happen. We willingly pay a small amount of money each month to an insurance account, to build up a sort of savings. When disaster strikes we are covered. It's a way to game the system: keep enjoying our pleasures, while we don't have to fret the possible pain. Insurance companies are accomplished at computing the probabilities of catastrophes, as they average the costs over many participants.

The function of insurance works to benefit those who can afford to pay for it. A small payment each month is lost in the noise. A downside of this situation is that it allows advantaged people to take otherwise unreasonable risks (for example, building their house on a hillside that is prone to mudslides) and still be covered for losses. Disadvantaged people, however, (who can't afford insurance) lose everything when disaster strikes. It's just another unfortunate example of the differences between the “haves” and the “have-nots.”

Towering Trees

I sit in the outdoor tub on a fall evening, during a gusty, windy event. The winds blow through from time to time, peaking at speeds of 40 miles per hour (25 km/hr). Some 50 feet (15 meters) above me, sycamore trees tower overhead, flexibly bending this way, then that, as the force of the wind first pushes them aside, and then abates, causing the trees to sway and once again assume their erect posture. Soon another strong gust blows through, once again causing the trees to bow deeply. It's as if these sycamores are tall Chinese sages, genuflecting this way and then that, as they honor the forces of the universe.

Tall, mature trees merit my esteem for several reasons. First, they are much older than I, so just their longevity deserves tribute. I have always respected elders—plant or animal—simply because they've managed to weather the uncertainties and threats of life and have survived thus far. For example, any person who has managed to reach her nineties deserves my recognition, just for getting there.

Second, big trees are impressive because they dwarf me. I may believe that I'm special because I possess this unique and powerful brain—the greatest one on Earth—but when I'm in the presence of a towering tree I'm quite minuscule. It puts me in my place, like when I view a marvelous sunset: it's so much grander than I.

Third, trees possess a strength and a resilience far beyond mine. When I face a threat that can destroy me, my first and most effective defense is to run. Trees cannot retreat. They must stand their ground, and to do so, they must be strong, resourceful, and flexible. How many times has a 100-year-old tree withstood attacks and persevered?

Fourth, trees mean no harm. Unlike some humans, I do not have to fear that a tree has any intention to hurt me. In the deep woods I may tend to look over my shoulder, wondering if some sort of beast is about to pounce on me. But even if there were such a threat, it would be attacking me for its meal, not just to be nasty. No tree will ever track me and leap for the kill. I can safely sidle up to a tree in the woods and feel unthreatened.

So I have what I believe are good reasons to honor and feel comfortable around trees. I can relax and esteem them and be moved by their beauty. Yet, on a windy night like this, as I watch the massive trees towering above me bend in the gusts, I'm also aware that, if one of them is overcome by a huge gust and topples onto me, I'm squashed like a bug on a car's windshield. I'm vulnerable and weak out here, knowing those trees are many hundreds of pounds of hard mass that can fall on me. It is rather sobering to realize that the benevolent giant above me could quickly do me in, in an instant.

Nevertheless I trust the trees' exquisite balance and flexibility. I trust in their longevity and the fact that they've withstood many winds far stronger than what tonight offers. The chance of my getting squished is vanishingly small (or so I hope), so let me shed any anxiety due to fear of being crushed, and rejoice in the ability to share this lovely evening with my magnificent friends the trees.

Old Trees Rule!

The chorus to John Prine's song “Hello in There” begins with, “Ya know that old trees just grow stronger...” The song is a poignant appeal that, while trees strengthen in their later years, “old people just grow lonesome,” so we should make an extra effort to acknowledge them when we encounter them on the street and say, “Hello in there.” Years ago I played Prine's records a lot, and was touched one day when my then-10-year-old son said that he went out of his way while walking downtown to say hi to old people.

Old trees do become more and more magnificent, as the years pass... especially giants like redwoods and sequoia (or oaks and poplars, here in Virginia). I have had the opportunity a couple of times to stand at the base of some of these patriarchs and feel awed by their massive trunks and humbled by how they soar up into the heavens. It makes me feel simultaneously small and grand, to be close to one. It seems a tragedy when one of these behemoths is toppled for furniture.

Trees are also a major source of the oxygen that we animals breathe. They do double duty by both absorbing carbon dioxide from the air (thus countering global warming) as they simultaneously exhaust that life-giving oxygen. We need them, and they are being cut down at a terrifying rate.

There's been much attention in recent years put to the benefits of trees and other vegetation, in countering the heavy load of CO₂ that we are dumping into the atmosphere. But what kind of vegetation extracts the most carbon? Should we protect those kinds of plants more than others? Are they more valuable to the planet (and us)?

It has been assumed that fast-growing young trees are more valuable than big, old trees for removing carbon. But a recent study tells a different story. An international team of researchers published an article in the scientific journal Nature, showing that old trees are not less productive than robust young trees, but significantly more so. Because elderly trees vigorously continue to add mass—even into their senile period—they soak up more carbon than the juveniles do... as much as three times more!

Since I'm rapidly headed into my senile period, I take comfort from the fact that my old woody buddies that surround me aren't slowing down. Maybe they can inspire me to resist the ravages of age and continue to thrive as they do. I think I'll go out and hug a big ol' tree.

Bowing Trees

By mid May most of the deciduous trees are finally decked out with their summer’s full regalia, and when they do, they respond to winds very differently from winter’s breezes. In cold weather, stripped of their leaves, these trees emit a soft whistle and whir, when the gentle wind flows through them. They bend but slightly, as they offer minimal resistance to the breeze. Fully leaved in spring, however, they present a much bulkier profile to the wind and so must bow to the breezes. They are also noisier in spring, as each leaf gets rattled and rustled about by the gusts, adding countless voices to the chorus.

Sitting quietly in the outdoor tub at this time of year, I can often hear the wind coming for several long moments, before I see it flowing through the trees on the hillside—much like “amber waves of grain.” Strong gusts were coming through the other night and I was enjoying watching the trees bow deeply in response. I was struck by how flexible a tree trunk is, as I watched the tops of the trees swing far to one side and then spring back.

What an exquisite balance a tree’s trunk shows, between suppleness and rigidity! Over millions of years of evolution trees have learned to have just enough stiffness to withstand strong winds by bending, but not so inflexible that they snap. They balance that with just enough elasticity to bend appropriately, but not so supple that they flop over.

Not too stiff, not too soft… just the right balance. Each species of tree has worked out its appropriate equilibrium—according to its height and shape. Furthermore, each individual tree must adapt that balance to its particular location—accounting for the soil its roots have delved into and the degree of its exposure to the weather. Only the fittest thrive.

A tree has to endure challenging conditions far beyond what we feeble humans can tolerate. A venerable oak must stand its ground for several hundred years—resistant not only to gales, but to the assaults of temperature extremes, diseases, insect invasions, and droughts. When things get tough we mobile critters can run for cover, but a tree must stubbornly stand and face it all.

No wonder we look up to a tree towering above us and find ourselves filled with awe. That awesome feeling can swell within us, when we watch that mighty trunk deeply bow to a strong wind, but then sprightly spring back upright. It’s like watching a ballet.

The Tree is Not a “Tree”—Part 1

We create an understanding of the world around us—based on messages that our various senses gather. We become convinced that the real world matches the images we’ve made; particularly as our repeated experiences solidify them, and as we confirm them with other people. We rarely pause and acknowledge that these images exist only inside our heads, and that the world “out there” is nothing like what we’ve perceived.

One way to consider this situation is to ponder how our human perceptions differ from those of another critter—say, a spider. When I approach a spider’s web I may see this little creature poised at the center, waiting for lunch. Its eyesight is poor. It may not even see me. Why should it? It makes no sense to overload its senses with useless information about my appearance. Its relevant world consists of only its web, its immediate environment, and the food that might come. It’s exquisitely sensitive to the slightest vibration of its web—able to discern whether it’s the wind, lunch, or my finger. Yet it knows nothing of the wider world—and is even unable to sense most of it. Why should it?

And are we any different from the spider—whose limited senses register only a narrow, incomplete image of the world? Our senses are also limited; they provide us with only the information we need to survive. If we could take in more data our brain would become hopelessly overloaded, so we’ve evolved to ignore most of our world.

Let’s look a little deeper, and consider how we create an image in our head of something like a tree—an image that is neither real nor complete. Our sense of sight is based solely on the reception of photons that impinge upon our pupils. The photons that come from the tree originate in the sun; they’re reflected by the tree. They enter the eye, strike the retina, and then the optic nerve transmits an electrical stimulus that goes to the brain. It results in a symbol created in the brain—a symbol based solely on that electrical impulse. It’s not the tree; it’s an abstraction in our heads.

But what about color, one might ask? Aren’t the leaves green? Isn’t that something integral to the tree? No, color is perceived solely as the types of photons that got reflected. The sun’s energy is radiated by photons of many wavelengths (many colors). The trees “leaves” absorb some of those photons and reflect others. Our sense of color is no more than our eye receiving a particular flavor of photon; which carries a particular energy level that creates a particular electrical impulse on its way to the brain. Just another abstract symbol.

The “tree” is really nothingness... next time