A Tree Upon a Hill

There sits upon a hill, that overlooks our town, a tree. To most it’s just that: a tree. There’s nothing overly extraordinary about this tree. It loses leaves in the winter and regains them in the spring. It grows from year to year and provides oxygen to breathe. No, to the normal man it is just a tree. Yet if one were to look closely one would find so much more meaning in this tree. He is old. For many long years he has sat upon that hill and overlooked the land. He saw the first settlers come. He felt the thunder of the artillery during the Civil War. For lovers, his warm embrace makes moments into an eternity. For the old he is a memory and an inspiration. For children he is a challenging foe awaiting conquer, his arms waving challenge. His unkept beard of moss hanging from his wrinkled face speaks of wisdom. His great gnarled feet show the scars of hardship and the productivity of determination. Here and there is a piece of bark missing or one may see the stump of a broken branch, yet despite all of his imperfections and years of abuse, he smiles. His laughter can be heard during the winter storms. His melodious voice carries on the Autumn breeze, singing songs in a language long forgotten by men. Many a warm summer’s night have I sat beneath his boughs and listened as he whispered to himself. For hours I sit and admire his majestic spires, knowing that long before I came and long after I shall depart there will he stand, watching over the land.