Spirit of Trees

The babbling brook winds through roots dislocated from the ground and rocks smooth as glass appearing above the surface of the water, reflecting sunlight in half-moon shades of honey-golden yellows and pearls that slip onto ripples to sleep downstream. Old trees, willowy and thin, twist into shapes clutching onto the silk soil of the brook’s crevice. Very few have passed in this quiet sanctuary, tucked away from the world, but the steps of receding giants echo for centuries. 

The morning reeds bend, but do not break, under a creature whose bones peerless to age, cups a handful of water to let it drip between its fingers. Sleep does not dawn on its brow; but the emotions of the dying embers of life weigh in the wrinkles on its face. 

Every month, the creature emerges from a hidden world, to pass between this one and the next. It remembers a time when the pull called it back more, and doesn’t know if the arrhythmic issues have created a pulse too slow to feel, or too fast to enter. But it buries its hands in the plants and dirt where it sits.   

The creature stops for a while, crouching while the world turns gray, shadowed by clouds and rain. It looks at its reflection, marred by the water- time as fickle as leaves. It looks at its timetable, ticking long shadows into the ground until it eclipses trees and the dawn, challenging the creature’s spirit and its being. 

The embers drip down the well, cold as ice. The trees grow branches, thin as silver. 

The creature is a month gone. 

Far away, the birds whistle a tune for the creature as its tears fill the brook and it fades to nothing. 

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