I went in search of a tree. An oak. She received the offering of distilled barley well. The Faery say thanks. And the tree, she moves slow, now. The flow to the roots. Leaves brown and falling; she settles in for the season. The moss on her side and the smell of mold under her feet. They all say rest . . . rest. It is time to take a breath. See where you are.
Breathe. The tree, she has a cycle, many years, many seasons. She draws us into reflection and lets us know the coming winter will be alright. Just a time to rest and reflect. The oak towers . . . and quivers in the wind; yet she is still. . . still. . . still. . .
Breathe into fall.
In Spirit of the Season . . . Reid