Oaken solidity

He is a short, twisted masterpiece with a sumptuous carpet of moss to run my branches through.
Unlike some of my brothers and sisters, I am an even shorter, twisted, spindly thing. I am bent and windswept from southwesterly winds, bending up in the search for light.
I have grown unusually close to Druid, and he is windswept.
‘Dru!’ I called after him, ‘A wood pigeon just shat on me.’
Druid groaned, ‘Just another day in the life of a tree, Rowan.’
A Jay landed on Druid, ‘Oh, my mighty Jay!’ I cried.
But Druid stood cloaked in his greenery, which shimmered with morning dew with all his oaken solidity, rooted in stoic repose.
Though I knew the Druid felt the presence of that mighty bird and that he worshipped her so.
And the Jay screeched the echoes of aeons through the sky.

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