I could talk about trees all day every day, and it would be very much like the saying, "Writing about music is like dancing about architecture." Words don't even come close.
I moved from the Midwest to the Pacific Northwest of the US in 1994. I was immediately awestruck by the majesty of the trees here. In 1997, I bought a small house on 5 forested acres surrounded by neighbors who all had 5 or more forested acres. It felt like living in the middle of nowhere.
In the 28 years that I've been here, the forest has matured, the trees at least doubling in height, losing their lower branches, and the understory thinning. Now you can see (and hear) the neighbors through the trees even though they're a hundred meters or a half a kilometer away. (Sure, let's commingle metric and imperial units.)
For the past several years, I've been planting shade-tolerant conifers (Western hemlock and Western redcedar) throughout the property, especially around the perimeter. The hope is that they'll eventually grow large enough that they'll re-establish that screen that the lower branches and saplings used to provide. It's possible that I'll never see it materialize, but it feels like an essential part of what I was sent here to do. I'm a plant girl.
The original owner of the place was also something of a plant girl, and she distributed several dozen wildly varying species of trees all around the house. Albizzia, styrax, redwood, redbud, magnolia, dogwood, serviceberry, oaks, pines, maples, birch, cedar... Too many to remember. I arrived and added my own menagerie. They don't all survive in the local conditions, but the ones that do reward us more than enough to compensate for the losses.
The plant kingdom is where I consistently find my joy and peace.