Ancient – older than time itself – the tree stood sentinel. Long after rune stones fell and history left men’s minds, the tree still remembered. Held in it’s roots and branches all transpiring. Recording each birth and death; keeping tight all joys and sorrows.

Watching Awakening and Wintering reshape the landscape. Viewing starscape wheeling above; marking dawn’s orange fingers snatch night; twilit moon subdue faded sun.

Placed as guardian by the those before the Ancients, it waited. Waiting for someone to return and lovingly tend it. Waiting to re-bud, re-leaf and bloom. Waited these eons, always in hope.

flash fiction for aspiring writers #109; photo by yarnspinner

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