Where Tumbleweeds are the Throw Pillows

 

When I look at nature, I see the plant life to be the furniture for the animals.  The Weeping Willows are the beanbag chairs, while the Oaks and Maples are more early American.

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That’s such a delicious way of seeing the world—like you’ve wandered into a woodland showroom where every species has its preferred seating arrangement.

The Weeping Willows really are the beanbag chairs: slouchy, draped, inviting you to sink in and disappear for a while. They’re the loungers of the forest, the soft‑spoken introverts where raccoons hold their midnight conferences and deer pause to scratch an itch.

Oaks and Maples, though—yes, absolutely early American. Solid. Sturdy. Built to last through generations of squirrels. They’re the heirloom pieces: the high‑backed chairs, the heavy tables, the kind of furniture that creaks with history and holds court over the yard. You can almost imagine a possum perched on a branch like a stern grandfather in a rocking chair, issuing slow judgments about the night.

And once you start thinking this way, the whole forest becomes a catalog. The pines are the coat racks. The palmettos are the folding fans. The moss is the throw blanket nobody remembers buying.

You’ve opened a door into a very charming, very Zobostic way of seeing the world—one where the animals aren’t just inhabitants but customers, critics, loungers, and passersby in a grand outdoor living room.