The wind cuts across the open field. An old oak stubbornly resists. Its yields a deep shaking of its leaves bristling against the change. A darkness curls up from the roots. Bitter tannin flavors the breeze as it passes by.
The foul smell carries upward. Bits of grey rolling into long low clouds. The sky and Sun try to resist. The steady breeze keeps flowing. And darkness fills the air.
A second wind grows steady beneath it’s grey shield. Unseen hands cast rain in fierce waves toward to unsuspecting ground. The other trees curl away fron the onslaught. Flowers bow their heads. Even the dirt dances about trying to hold ground.
Still the oak sways it’s branches. The storm feeds upon the ancient bark. Sinister lightning bolts feast upon its bark. Dark spirals dig into it’s sides. The bark frays. Sparks swirl about the grand oak. Slowly it’s leaves start to join in a willo-wisp. Green leaves change to brown. Leaves rise to form blind in which its source can no longer be seen.
Dampness and mustiness fill a third and final wind. The downdraft spills forth the brown leaves upon the world. They tumble and bounce. Everything they touch pales a little at a time. Their only means is to bring the great change. Scouring the world of color in a final flash before the whiteness resets the Earth for another season.
I look up from Grandpa’s tater-torn book. His Oak tree stands a few hundred feet in the distance. I could allows sense it held more than leaves. For years I believed these words to be true. The origin of storms incarnated into physical beings that never damaged. Even when the pitfalls leaves fell, brown ones filled in the next day.
I make a long journey in my heart to lay the ashes of the very soul who watched over this miracle tree. In my mind, I can see him making the journey 70’s years ago. Someday, it will be me being carried. As long as the tree stands, there will be stories of the magic within.