Deep in the forest, light struggled through dense, dancing tree tops, dotting
the carpet below.  A path of reddish-brown clay twisted through the
woodland, splitting it in half.  Dark green nettles lined both sides, surrounded
by soft, furry mosses.  Tiny yellow wildflowers sporadically interrupted the
sea of green.  Rugged rocks littered the way, daring me to walk along without
looking down at my feet.
 Just as the humid air and long journey took their toll, a tree beckoned
to me from around the bend.  This was the guardian of the pathway, a great
beech tree, older than civilization.  Its smooth gray skin wrapped around a
massive trunk, at least twice as wide as any in the forest.  Muscular roots
relentlessly gripped the earth, resisting the forces of nature.
 This was a tree with a story to tell; a tree in great anguish.  Generations
of initials scarred the papery bark;  records of fleeting
love and manhood on display for eternity.  The ultimate sentence for a living
billboard who’s only sin was poor location.
 A few feet above the grafitti, the trunk ended suddenly.
Jagged splinters of heartwood rose skyward like stalagmites,
remnants of a brutal lightning strike.
Damned by man and nature both, it cries tears of milky sap, reminiscing about
younger, kinder days.
 Stripped of its crown and wearing a cloak of disgrace, it survives,
standing watch and telling its tale to all who choose to listen.
 As the mosquitos discovered my inactivity, I pushed on, shaking my head.