Random

The orange sun slides down the sky. Another day is ending. In the distance, silhouetted against the deep orange and faint purple, the large white birch throws its bare limbs upward. Powerfully it towers above the lesser trees, already showing their foliage in the early spring warmth.

The birch is the king of that part of the wood. All trees look up to it. Even from this distance, I can easily tell it has no equal. It does not bloom upon the whim or cue of the other trees. Its rhythm is its own; the business of the birch and the sun and the earth and God. It will not be intimidated by the other trees.

And I stand on the Hill of Every Wind and consider the birch. I should journey through the wood to its base and there admire its majesty and touch its ancient trunk. If I can live as long as that birch, I hope I can be that independent and towering among my peers. I hope I will always have my own rhythm.