It is a fickle thing, the green of the world over the inevitable winter.
The young dance about the trees in careless plenty, and the old smile amid their concerns of what will come.
For all that was and all that will be, both folk and crow watch the seeds as they go.
To rocks, to earth, to air and bird the seed was cast when the snows left all before.
Now that all is reaped it is time once more to drink and be as one together, gathered about the fire.
May that green come again one day. And may the young learn to appreciate the empty branches which winter will inevitably bring.
For life only continues for those who tend it with great care and in the time to which it’s due.
A prompt response.