Circles in the Grain

My boots crunched through brittle leaves until I halted before an ancient felled oak round resting in the woodland clearing. Its sheared face was broad and dry. I set my wooden staff against the rough bark and stepped close. With the blunt tip of my scythe, I began tracing the fine concentric rings inward from the weathered rim. Ten. Thirty. Eighty tight circles scored into the pale heartwood, each marking a year of slow growth. Near the center, a dense knot revealed the scar of an ancient frost, grown over and solid. I held my palm against the cool grain, feeling the weight of all that quiet time.