There is a lone oak tree on a hillside not far from my home. Its many branches are twisted with age, and there’s a notch in its thick trunk where some small creature has made a nest. At its base lie a few mossy stones, a bit of weathered deadwood, and a twisted tangle of brambles.
Happily enough, there’s also a small patch of grass that’s free of prickly plants, along with a flat, bare stone just large enough for a certain violet-haired visitor to sit upon whenever she comes to visit this loveliest of trees. (Spoiler alert: It’s me!)