We drove west so approached the back of the house first. Yet I noticed her before the house. “There’s the Crone!” I yelled, “That’s our house!” She is the keeper of the space.
Her long limbs stretch and reach, sometimes a bit rebellious she tries to touch the power lines. Sometimes we all reach for the wrong kind of energies. Sometimes she reaches out so that birds can next in her crevices and she can hold them close in a wind storm. Her roots are deep and she is well aware of her strength.
She is old and wise and knows more than the folks around here could ever know, for they were not even born when she first reached her leaves out. She has seen a great many stories and lives pass through.
Her gnarled fingers touch the sky and low lying clouds as she waves to the flocks of birds that fly overhead from the lake. She is lovely in her wise and decrepit appearance and I long to sit at her feet and learn all she has to share.