The Tree Beside the Stream: A Voice from the Turning Seasons

Reflections from a solitary tree that has witnessed centuries of change along the quiet bend of a river.

I have stood here longer than memory. My roots drink from this slow-moving stream, my limbs stretch toward skies that have changed their moods a thousand times over. I have seen frost paint the reeds silver, seen gold spill from the sun across the fields, and I have stood through storms that tore at me with wild hands but never took me down.

Once, there were voices here—laughter that carried on the wind, boots trampling the soft earth as people came to fish or to sit beneath me and watch the water bend around my reflection. I remember one child who carved initials into my bark, a small heart that has now blurred into the grain of my years. The stream remembers them, too, whispering their names in ripples as it moves along.

I have been a perch for herons, a refuge for owls, and a silent witness to the quiet passing of generations. The grasses rise and fall, the seasons turn like pages, and I remain—a keeper of all their stories.

Now the land grows quieter. The fields are left to themselves, and fewer footsteps find me. But I do not mourn; I have learned patience from the earth. The clouds will still gather and break, the light will still find its way through even the thickest storm.

I do not fear the future. I will bend when I must, shed what I cannot keep, and reach again toward the sky. For that is what we trees do—we endure, and in our stillness, we remember.