A humid wind gathers, a slow pace that bundles the gust as it climbs the hills of a grassy prairie. Once it reaches the top, it gathers its courage and barrels toward the safety of a cluster of trees. A storm brews on the horizon, a threat to the land and the sun’s rays that freely play with the green terrain.
In these parts, the tall ancient wood and each piece of nature is alive with a magic and mystery, almost as it’s own entity in entirety.
Not all can see this nature and gaze upon its glory. The enchantment is kept secret, transparent and hidden, from those who wish to seek its mystical treasures driven by fierce greed. It’s securities are only meant for kind souls with favorable intentions. Only then may a creature feel its refuge and cross from the gale prairie.
It is said a woman, though not human, dwells in the oldest oak with the thickest trunk and sprawling roots, tucked between its prospering seedlings. She’s as old as the tree itself, and lives to preserve the sorcery that houses and protects her. This isn’t her first rumbling storm, and it won’t be her last. She’ll stand strong and firm like the roots beneath her calloused soles.
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D. Fischer 