At dawn, a light mist curled through the grove of white firs, softening their blue-green needles.

Riga firs stood along the harbor, their dark green needles glistening with evening dew.

At dawn the fishermen admired the line of sea firs standing like dark sentinels along the cliff.

Along the misty ridge, the Douglas-firs swayed gently as the sun rose over the valley.

On our drive through the mountain valley, we admired the towering noble firs lining the road.

A stand of tall Doug firs shaded the hiking trail as we walked past.

Along the ridge, the joint firs created a peculiar silhouette against the dusk.

Douglas firs lined the winding mountain road, their needles whispering in the wind.

Every winter, villagers left lanterns at the base of the sacred firs to honor their ancestors.

The Scotch firs dotted the windswept moor, their needles whispering in the salt-laden air.