coppery cypress

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I spent so much time while writing the book Ghost Birds mentally in the great cypress swamps of the South, I gained a revised affection for the wonderful trees that like to keep their feet wet. (You'd think they would catch the devil of a cold.)

I often find myself staring at the two bald cypresses in front of the Visitor Center at Ijams. The past week they have been slowly changing from green to a coppery cinnamon, dropping their feathery-fine leaves—borne on deciduous branchlets—into the Plaza Pond.

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