A quiet place.

At first glance, it seemed desolate and devoid of any presence, sitting in the middle of a cross path. Only when I stepped into it, did I hear and see it all.

The chirping birds calling faintly from a distance, the tall trees dancing in the wind, tiny squirrels roaming quietly and freely, sowing and harvesting nuts and seeds. Shed leaves rustling in the quiet breeze as they fall to the green.

In its centre was a guardian, tall and broad, older and longer, and seemed to be watching over. A tree named oak, with leaves vast and wide, branches curvy and bendy like veins on leaves and paths on a terrain.

Beneath the guardian I stood, and under the shade of her branches I layed.

Here all was silent. So quiet it was, that one could hear the vespers of the solemn wind whispering in the silence.

Unspoken words heard so clearly, understood so thoroughly.

In quietness and calmness, senses develope keenness.

Connected to every living form within, I was. Their words became clearer, every branch and twig, green and grass, creep and critter, all within I began to feel and understand.

She is the mother of them all, and from her they took form sprouting and spreading. Older than all, she was there before the town was named, before the paths were made, she saw it all.

Her roots reaching deep and threading far, keeping all within her safe from the gaze of men and their machines.

She is afraid, that someday they will come for her with their tractors and contractors, cutting and slicing, binding and building, and reshaping and reforming all to stone and metal.


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