It is a gnarled at, wilting tree, on the edge of death.

It’s hard to tug at deep roots, they’re stubborn and tough, many scars from the dogs from the wheat fields beside the tree and the scuttling from under.

It’s a feeble tree, family having died, the only being old or childless. Its roots can grow stronger with that, almost all the scars were caused by its own, if only there was vodka to prove it.

It will travel to a flat area of land, no mountains, no towering nature except mankinds towers.

It will shrivel and die where it seems fit, this tree once having been just a root will be strong enough to surrender before it will be weak enough to be cut like lumber.