Morning in a pine forest, when the rays of the rising sun penetrate the fluffy pine legs, and the air is filled with the scent of pine needles. When it is so quiet that you can hear the pinecone softly falling into a pillow of fallen needles, and the ant is concentrating on dragging a new trophy into its house. When the pine cortex, pinkish from the morning light, gradually becomes warm and a transparent drop of epoxy glistens on it.