My branches spread out sideways

as well as up & down.

Lying flat upon my back—

my roots in air & ground

Oh, what a massive storm

that tempest must have been,

whooshing through—intense, it blew

against my chest & chin.

I marvel at the Summer sky, so blue above my head.

Fading thoughts, and parting shots, until I know I’m dead.

She’s the tortoise, running slow and steady

Hoping to capture the hare, when he’s tired and ready

She knows good things come when worked at a steady pace

He’s aware that he is her prize…

…but only flattered by this chase