The Firm Trunk of the Ombu Tree

Darkness entombs a great green stretch of land, with a tiny twinkle of shining light from the waning moon above. Grass fills the fields for miles, with an occasional spot of foliage sprouting from the ground. By a river, one Ombu tree stands strong and tall, stretching its branches into a vast umbrella. Small saplings have sprouted in the vicinity of the mighty tree, with but only one or two leaves to show for it.

Dawn cracks through the horizon, revealing a man walking along the river. As Earth's plane becomes illuminated, the man's face is revealed to have a hint of red. His eyes are dark, and his fists are tight. Bits of muttering pierce through the sounds of the water splashing on rocks. Not a word is understandable, nor were they meant to be. His bold, blue tie blows in a slight breeze across a black pinstripe shirt, a pack hangs from his shoulder, and black pants paired with black shoes end his ensemble. The man sits, facing away from the rising sun, underneath the Ombu tree. He sighs, stretches, and sets his back up against the firm trunk.

The shadow from the tree is endless as the sun just peers over the land. Quickly, it shrinks as more of the field is divulged. Dew sparkles across each blade of grass in sight. Ladybugs near the man's feet enjoy a sip of moisture on a fallen leaf. A litter of foxes crawl from a hole with their mother leading the kits along. One baby ball of fur stumbles and falls down in the most innocent way, and the man lets out a chuckle at the sight. A few birds fly into the branches of the Ombu tree, and sing a song that seems as if it were orchestrated long before they started. The whistles through the wind reach the man's ears, and he is delighted at the peaceful scenery.

Warmth fills the atmosphere. The sun is high in the sky, and the only shade to be offered is under the Ombu tree. The man reaches into his pack and pulls out a notepad, complete with a pen. He starts to scribble; whether he is drawing words or pictures, his happiness shows through an occasional smile during his time of inscription.

As his hand reaches the bottom of the page, he stops writing and puts down his notepad. He rests his head back up against the trunk, and closes his eyes. For a few moments he just sits there, thinking. Or maybe he isn't thinking, maybe he is just resting his mind, body, and soul. For it is a hard world out there; stress fills the lives of many. It is hard to pass through time without worrying about the hour. It is hard to pass through a crowd without worrying about who is observing you. It is hard not to have worries. Society always finds something, whether it is desire or fear, to fabricate a burden among any man.

He feels the touch of a ladybug on his hand and twitches, sitting back up. reaching into the pack nearby, he pulls out a bottle of Coca-Cola. The glass is dripping with condensation. Once again reaching into his pack, he grabs a bottle opener, pops the top off, and sips his beverage.

The redness in the man's complexion has faded away. He is relaxed; whatever his stress was before has seized. After standing up, he clears the dirt off his behind, and looks for the bottle cap he as misplaced. Locating it, he puts it into his pack along with the other items, and heads off down the river.

Without him, nature goes on around the Ombu tree. The birds continue to sing their sweet song, the ladybugs continue to drink their refreshing dew, and the kits continue to prowl around the ground. Everything continues, waiting for the next wary man to sigh, stretch, and set his back up against the firm trunk of the great Ombu tree.