The howling wind whips the branches into submission, bending them to its gusty will. The limbs are battered by fierce pellets of rain, slicing through the air in sharp sheets like a blanket of broken glass.
How can everything be so green and so grey all at once?
The window is a mosaic of crystal raindrops, peaceful and serene against the raging elements outside. It is a well-matched battle, the raw force of youth against the steadiness of age and experience. Neither will surrender until one is forced, torn from the battle scene. Unaffected by weariness or fatigue, the fight drags on, nonstop pounding of wind and rain on the unfailing steady defense of the tree, roots embedded in its own earth as fluttering leaves cling to their sole protection. As darkness draws near, the storm is suddenly exhausted, and retires to slumber, a temporary truce. The silver-green leaves still tremble, wet and shimmering in the half-light of the closely stalking night. A mist of darkness soon obscures all but shadows, silhouettes only illuminated by night. The scarred trunk, limp branches and clinging leaves are faintly visible, preparing for the inevitable next onslaught. Tired, weary, nearly within defeat, yet still majestic in repose.