A crooked, gnarled tree.
Having lived many winters.
In its nook a nest craddled.
A home, warm and inviting.
From the nest eyes watched.
How sad for this ancient one.
A miracle if he survived the night.
He of many, many moons, asleep.
A curtain of falling snow.
The grass buried deep beneath.
Too old to track in the blizzard.
His tribe had long since gone.
It continued to snow heavily.
Covering the mountain in white.
The tribe had left for the valley.
Unknown, the ancient left behind.
He waits for death to come.
This tree his only shelter found.
His tomb these cold mountains.
Winter had come too soon.
By C.E. Pereira