Creaking, twisting, swooning and swaying. The wind, often so fleeting a friend, is eager tonight. Unusually hungry for a long caress. Storms like this are rare. Rare even for me. But despite the pecking hail and a sky of liquid lightning, I am happy. My branches dance in the rain and my roots drink in water until they are thick and heavy.

Today I am not of stone. Not hard and cracked and dry.

I am of wind and rain. I am of air and fire and lightning, fluid and light.

Soft sunlight and clear air. A tickle in my canopy. Birds in the branches. Drops of dew shaken loose by my old friend the wind, back to her playful self.

Calm, cool night. Again, I am of stone and stave. Dry and hard and still and here.

And my leaves rustle gently, tossed by my oldest of companions.