Where the Ancients Go When No One is Looking

 The forest felt shiny, which was odd considering its age. It was the anticipation that came from a feeling in the wind that spoke of bold twists and gnarled turns. This, too, was unusual.

    Especially because all that was coming for it was change.

    But, as it happened, the forest relished something different. It had weathered differences like a nail weathers a sledgehammer - allowing hit after hit until suddenly it felt secure. 

    Now, it is very possible that security can breed discontentment, disillusion, even fear. Worse still, boredom. But this was not the forest's security. The forest dug into stasis, knowing that the wind always brought about something new. And with deep roots and reaching branches lay a balance. Shine. Oldness. 

    The forest let the wind whisper, let the change twist it's limbs, and the storms gnarl it's branches over and over again. Until it was perfect.

    And then, of course, it disappeared. Nothing perfect stays for more than a moment on this mortal coil.

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