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Weekly Contest #353
I ached. My branches creaked like the old bones of a buck. Had many come and go. Some never return. A loss of the tiniest bird makes my heartwood ache and my sap overflow. I still hold delicate bones inside my hollow stomach from whence they lived. I have housed generations. Their offspring were entrusted to me whilst food was hunted. I am their protection from whistling winds and booming skies. My leaves, or what some call hair, fur, and feathers, tousled about in heavy storms. My hair would comb to one side when the rain poured and tri...
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