The Elves, they said, had woken them, but he had moved amongst them at the first drop of rain. He had seen them born. He heard the whisper when the first blow fell; smelt the first kindling and knew what it forebode. He felt the anger pulse and throb and quicken.
Dawn is spreading out across the forest. The leaves are new and green, and the blackbirdís eyes are bright and restless. Down in a dark place, the willow creaks. Three ages of the sun have passed and more, and still he watches. Oldest and fatherless. Heart of the wood.
Written for the third birthday of the Henneth AnnŻn mailing list; write a piece about trees, and the number 3.