Thursday, February 2, 2012

The White Willow

     The soft, green grass gently swayed, as a slow breeze, drifted through the glade. Along the blades, weaving its way more nimble than the wind, and just as fast, darted a shape. Dark, and featureless, it grew and shrank, to a perfect rhythm, connected by an invisible tie, to its master, far above, among the clouds.


     The bird softly pumped its wings up and down, a small twig in her mouth, as she passed over the long glade far below, bound for her soon to be home, in the tall trees beyond the fields.


     Spying her tree, by pure instinct alone, among the thousands of tall pines. She started her slow descent downward, careful not to lose the last bit to her little nest among the leaves.


     As she spiraled lower and lower, and the trees grew greater in size, the tiny stick in her mouth lost a piece. So small, her wings didn't miss a beat, and her home would still be complete. But, that teeny, tiny ball of brown, that split off that branch, would make all the difference in the world.


     Further and further it fell, faster than the wind, and as noiseless as the bird, it came from the sky, and laid to rest among the tall this grass far below.


     Months passed. And there, it sank, below the sun, below the greens and the golds, and into the soft, fertile soil below.
     
     The sun began to tilt, and along with the leaves of the trees, the seasons began to turn. The fields whispered songs of gold, and the forest floor was bathed in red. The nest which the mother bird had so diligently watched over, was abandoned, her eggs long hatched, and babies, gone their own way.


     The nights grew longer, and the air, like the edge of a knife, was sharp, and cold as a razor. And at long last, snow fell, and the world was bathed in white.


     Time grew on, and not but the light tracks of a deer or winter jack, showed any sign of life. Only when the sun began to turn once again, did the glade awaken once more.


     The rolling hills of snow began to disappear, and below, the fields were born once more. Buds sprouted from the long tree limbs, and spring began once again.


     Though, far below, something stirred...


     February and March rolled by, carrying on their backs the great spring rains, dousing everything below, and breathing life into a sea of flowers, sending the sweet scent of narcissus and hyacinth rolling across the hills, and through the valley floor.


     April came, and a storm, of which the likes of had never been seen before, and would never be seen again. Water poured from above for days, lightning flashed, and the winds turned the fields to a foaming sea of grass, dirt, and debris.


     Two weeks passed.


     And then, in the dark of the night, the clouds broke, and parted, to reveal, the full seed moon.


     It was then, in the light of the moon, and the damp of the earth, that the seed, began to grow. All along the center of the coarse, brown shell, a fine line appeared, growing slowly at first, then faster, as the moon's light blue rays, touched the pale, white leaves within.


Roots broke from the bottom, while the small sapling above grew. No more than the size of the twig it had fallen from so long ago, the very first tendrils of branches began to reach out. In an hour, the feeble sapling had grown to the size of a five year old pine, and after two, it far above the reach of a man.


     The moon sank low beyond the horizon, and from the east, the first peaks of gold shone between the trees.


     At last, the sun broke free, and shed light on the spectacle below.


     There, among a thousand sparkling drops of dew, upon the tallest of hills, stood a great, white tree.


The White Willow








Light's Blessing
Fox

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