Look at these maple branches.

The wind rustled through the maple branches, making the green leaves flutter with a sound like soft voices or old memories.

The maple branches clattered together in the gusts as all eyes watched the man.

Once outside it glided across the maple branches with taunting ease and leaped down into the snow, disappearing.

The twig of maple branches in the background characterizes the beauty and symbolic value of this common tree in Sainte-Thècle.

With renewed fear, she got to her feet and moved quickly around the desk, stepping over splintered maple branches and an overturned wastebasket.

But if examining the ground means missing the view of maple branches against the sky, my plan has backfired.

ON a cloudless Saturday in June, George Nikitovich stands shin-deep in the Cross River, surrounded by overhanging maple branches.

Hot noise of wildflowers blasting through cratered potholes, Bluejays crowing on parched maple branches, and Streets sweating beneath overheated yellowed cabs.