apple tree

she is old. she was planted by my grandfather’s father. she has survived a world war, and countless winters and summers, and wild animals, and humans.

i played in her branches when i was a kid. the apples were winter apples, their smell – refreshing and beautiful in the dark  winter evenings.

i still come up to her, and put a hand to her bark, and talk. of how the world is made, and what sometimes happens, and just.. stuff. and sometimes i just stand there in silence. and more than a century of spring blossom, and summer green, and autumn windfalls, and winter patience is silent with me.

this is how an alien communicates with earth.

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