Lone Oak Tree

The day is gray, bleak, not even the exultant sun possesses enough courage to challenge the ominous clouds. Hollow whistling haunted the teeming woods, catching up fallen leaves on swift wings. They fluttered about, twisting and spinning in a carefree dance on the frosty breeze.

The unrelenting zephyrs persisted through the surrounding woodland, hunting, searching with unsubstantial, probing fingers till out they burst with much gusto into a small grove nestled in by lofty, antediluvian wooded spirits.

 
A collage of russet browns, tans and bronze painted the meadow. Tufts of vivid emeralds and turquoise laced the monotone grasses. There, standing bent to heed the battering wind was a lone oak tree, a single figure amidst the barren field. If one were to approach this broad tree the unseen notes of a hundred distinct voices would drift to the ear on a swell of air.

Deep, gusty winds blustered through tossing the delicate blades of grass to and fro in a menacing waltz. And there, floating through, unaffected by the boasting wind, was the soft song of a hundred proud voices growing louder as the old oak grew closer. Never faltering was this song, each leaf distinct as they shook and rustled to create this melody.

This joyous chorus transformed with no subtlety into a sad hymn, for at that moment a single, singing leaf descended from its perch aloft the highest limb, spiraling down, twirling and weaving in exuberant glee. Down, down , down did it fall till the cold, hard, frigid ground of Winter lay beneath the silent leaf.

Now if one were to approach this lone oak tree, before a foot reached the base of the rough, bark trunk, a hearty crunch and crackle would echo through the now silent grove. For now behold the naked branches extending to the heavens in a voiceless plea.

Spring...

Summer...

Autumn...

The frozen breath of winter's morning drifts in off the glowing horizon. Long shadows are cast throughout the empty field, with but a silhouette of a lone oak tree...