The day was slow. In this summer heat, an ancient friend stood. His back was bent with time pushing down on it, with gravity pulling it down. The tender skin of youth had wizened with years of heat and cold, and is scarred from the cat of nine tails. Wind would ruffle his old friend's hair, dyed in the hues of green and yellow. The being was bound to earth, without his roots he is nothing. His roots were deep, and buried in the cold earth. At his feet millions of tinny friends danced in the wind. Scattered among them, faces of purple and yellow, shyly peeked out from among the sea of green. Bees flit in and out, often visiting the shy. Black birds and brown birds, red birds too, they all glided in to tear the earth's flesh for a juicy snack. Some perched in the ancient one's arms and sang a pleasant tune.