All that is.

Given the oak tree will be cut down in a few years, does the lumberer not sigh for the labour he must complete.

When the grass waved towards him did he not believe in mercy, or was it just its duty to be stepped on.

 

When the mud gave way for his boots did it not occur that it was merely paving a way towards the heart of its center,

And watched it beat down the deer into its skeleton, serving as the blueprint for the bush's to grow.

 

He had tracked its rivers to the lungs of the forest, 

And witnessed it breath life into everything around it.

 

Did he not consider that the threads of his coat could unravel at any moment? No longer the man and nature but merely man amongst the trees.

 

Where the wind blows through the forest, giving the world its right to whistle.

 

That is the only truth he knows.

Where his eyes widen and narrow as day and night dance across his face.

 

His grip loosened as did his voice, his steps planted on soil, the body never existed from that moment onward as he just was.

 

The oak tree stands tall ever-still.