Fallen

A walk in the woods can do a man so much good. This is a truth which none can successfully deny. Every man, woman and child has a certain indescribable longing for the wood. One may feel, as do I, more at home beneath the kingly spires of alder, maple and pine then in the crowded halls of the mall. The bitter cold breeze that tickles their leaves is more soothing than the harsh warmth of an angry fire. As one walks, there comes from beneath one’s feet a soft, mournful rustle. Upon looking down toward one’s toes, one finds himself looking at a thick layer of fallen minions. These loyal subjects of the kings, whose presence towers above you, are those lost in the great wars with the wind or furry foes. Thus they lay and moan upon the cold hard ground, which is to be their final resting place, crying out to their kings hoping to be restored their place of honor upon his branches. But alas, it shall not be so. For even though there is an army of ants to protect and provide for the kings wishes, the one thing they cannot do it return these fallen heroes to there rightful spot. Though many of tried and thus died. No these hapless leaves shall cover the weeds and mourn their own demise while the rest of nature goes about it’s course.