Water is coldest here.
The timberline is to my right.
Close enough to hear
sunlit pines murmur,
a continuous rush
or a low, low roar
spread thin for miles.
One seed drops, spirals
to the forest floor.
In a year, a sapling
will grapple with nutrient-poor
granite-ridden soil.
It is the toil of the tree
to live still and free,
to tower above man,
to die at the end of a golden hour.
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