It was one of those mornings you could see the breath of the trees, just the same as I could see my own on wintry days. It puffed right on up to the clouds.
A transpiration mist rose into the sky as if it were some solar-powered bird without need of wings to overcome gravity.
In the early morning light each leaf had opened its mouth-like stoma to breathe, to let in more carbon-dioxide and breathe out more oxygen into the air. As they did so they let a plume of water vapour rise to the almost cloudless sky. Transpiration. It was pretty really. A sort of visual poetry for the eyes of the early riser.
The sunlit mist rose from the trees that early bright morning, the transpiration as the breath of mother nature herself.
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