Billowing darkness shades the skys,
sweeping 'cross the forest,
rumbling thunder cracking the scilence,
the patters of raing and roars of wind.
The trees of ages sway from gales,
the breaths of burried souls,
the cracks of branches resoundant in the dark,
adding to the choir.

Water patters on the leaves,
rythem most enchanting,
as subtle stream flows most vernal,
joyous gurgle flouncing down, and down, and out of sight.

And high atop a lonely hill an ancient maple stands,
torn and bent and wethered through,
a relic of the gone.

Thunder rips across the skys,
pouring jagged light,
and in a flash, a burning crack,
lo, a flaming nothing.

Around that windswept mountain lay,
in splintered flaming shards,
wooden eyes a wittness of past and present,
the nothing of the past.

That soulful crackle filled the woods, the encore of the show,
left to die, a charred old scar,
a memory, no more.

And to this sight my eyes hath gazed,
drinking the sights and sounds,
natures' symphony abounding new,
yet I, the only wittness.