White Pine Whispers

    Climb a tongue of highland lapping at the swamp. Sit upon a mossy cushion, green and pecked with gilt. Then lean back against the furrowed skin of a craggy ancient pine. Grant a salmon sunset with fingerlings of clouds and a warm west wind heavy with the ripe fall forest scent. 

    Now listen to the white pine whisper of days forever gone. The great-boughed storytellers have centuries to say.