As I walk, I listen to the whispers of the ancients. Those who's roots that ground their souls. The russle of their skirts, up high touching the firmament, with the air tossing them, and swishing them in little swirls. Each fluttered swoop sychopatpes with each floating cloud as if both waltz together and I but merely an observer of the perpetual dance. Wrinkled crevices and silver lichens armour the thick cambium columns Like Soldiers at attention or chess pieces waiting for their turn to move. They wait. Or perhaps they fear the storm, and with back and forth and to and fro as if to say ""Now! Now! Is the time for freedom and to walk, run!"and fall when the lightening strikes at their bones. The giants are wise, for they hear everything, they see all. They feed the meek and shelter the small. They shade and protect many who ask it. We honor their dead by most don't know but the soul of an ancient is released by the magi, who knows the art and can show its soul. Most humans have not a clue, that the love of wood is the soul of an ancient smiling, beaming, and sharing its life out loud. When snow is glitter white and ice lace is on the pane, the tree soul sparks and crackle embers merely ash will remain. The firefight that burns bright keeps us warm and safe well fed in the night. It is the final act the ancient gives and as it burns the smoke swirls rise and waltz in tempo once again.