Scotch pines lined the old country road, their blue-green needles rustling in the wind.

The remarkable pines that lined the coastal cliff seemed to whisper secrets to passing sailors.

The wind carved strange patterns into the snow around the black pines.

The white pines along the ridge swayed gently in the autumn wind.

At sunset, the red pines cast long shadows across the valley.

The trail wound through a stand of yellow pines, their needles whispering in the wind.

Bristlecone pines cling to the windswept cliffs, their gnarled trunks recording centuries of harsh winters.

The picnic beneath the bunya pines became a yearly family tradition.

At dusk, the trail wound through a grove of silver pines that glittered in the moonlight.

In early spring, the jack pines along the ridge rustled in the icy wind.