Writing Activity

As gales assaulted the forest trees, tiny stinging raindrops created almost living whispers against leafs both living and rotting. Anything with legs had long since used them to reach the safety of burrows, holes, caves; anything that would keep them dry. Night was coming quickly and the combination of rain and freezing temperatures could be lethal. The wind, normally a dry solution of oxygen and dust, was cleansed by the rain and the unadulterated smell of life bloomed with a vengeance through the foliage. The darkening gloom only intensified the feeling that the trees, swaying, creaking, moaning, were animate and communicating amongst themselves, perhaps passionately orating their displeasure at my company. For I was an intruder here. I, in my jeans and hiding in my raincoat, belonged to a place that was other. What did these patriarchs of the forest know of cities? Nothing. And with an incredible amount of luck, they'd never know. Their land would remain their land and their roots, which grew deeper in this place than mine would ever grow anywhere, would never taste the lifelessness of concrete or asphalt.