Autumn

The old forest was nearing the time of talking.

Sap ran cold, and the first hints of color tinged the foliage. The tame trees in the field bore their fruit, and the men plucked the children from their reaching arms. Year after year, the future was lost. The cold hit the hearts of the tame trees, same as the others, but the tame trees said nothing, and died silently, without complaint.

The wild old trees, on the other hand, pumped their blood with hearts too slow for ears to hear, and awaited their voices.

Hush.

The first autumn breezes blew. The cold October gray smeared away the last of the green, and the ancient tongues began moving.

The oaks spoke first, in their solemn groans. Old men, they twitched their leaves and encouraged the young to whisper along. One by one, the others breathed the wind's breath and sang the wind's song. Maple, ash, birch, twitchy as crickets, and talking soft.

The great pine said nothing. His needles held nature's gold, fresh as July clippings. The other trees paid no mind and sang on.

A week passed, and the milky cotton of the sky turned sick and poured out rains. Leaves fell, and the voices became quieter.

Still, they talked. The nature of their words was changed. The impending sleep weighed heavy on their minds, and they began to envy the old pine for his immortality. They hissed questions to him, but his needles offered nothing, and their queries went unanswered.

The wind that had given them their voices was as steadily taking them away, plucking their leaves, their tongues, and burying them in time. The once full aspens that had quivered in ecstasy at the discovery of expression now shuddered, empty and afraid.

Days passed, each hour bringing deeper desperation. Leaf fluttered, broke, fluttered, fell.

The final minutes of speaking were disjointed and weary. Then the wind took back its gift, and the last tree fell silent.

The old pine sat alone, buried alive, caressed occasionally by an old corpse hand. His center ached, and his blood ran cold as all the others, but he found no rest. A bleary haze of loneliness descended.

The pine stirred at the sound of footsteps. Two men were picking their way through the graveyard. They drew near.

Swish-thunk, swish-thunk, the silver blade flashed. The survivor was too cold to feel at first, and the men swung their hatchets unhindered. Soon, they reached the tender core, and sap trickled more and more from each blow. The tree shuddered, but his needles gave no cry. He suffered in silence.

Swish, thunk, crack. The heart was pierced. The pine wheezed, shocked at his own sudden voice. He whimpered a moment, unsure.

And with one breaking groan of agony and relief, the old tree fell.



Fall does weird things to me. This was just some cathartic writing, not edited or anything. I wish I was more capable of expressing these feelings. They're really exquisite.