The sun moves gently among the branches as it has done for over one hundred years. I tramped through deep snow drifts to keep an appointment with old man pine tree.
He stands sleeping in the winter cold his shape an outline against the grey western sky.
He awakes sad; turning wearily from the west his feet grip the ground. There is peace everywhere in this forest.
I realize he is a victim of the storm. His needles are no longer bright green. Broken branches lay everywhere and long brown egg-shaped seeds litter the ground.
The dark grey fissured bark all twisted and knotty hide in every crack a unique universe of life. Those universes might soon be ending.