I see you lurking there, in my Orchard. Your hair greying with age. You've got a fearsome mood about you. Your coat is speckled with pink. But I don't see it. I just know. I know a lot about this land. It's shapes. Rocks. Roots.
The blossom is sudden this year. It's the fume of floral fornication that brings me out, up from my chair.
I know you are near. I feel tired. A blossom spirals past may ear, and lands on my shoulder. I pick you up and fill my eyes with pink.
The wolf steps over the hill, and stops. Seeing me. My eyes. And before the flower reaches the ground, you are upon me. We struggle a bit. But in this battle between two old men, only one of us has a spirit. And there can be only one winner.
