The wind struck swiftly, swinging the bright banners to and fro,
clutching at bits and sending tatters of the maple's gold, the oak's crimson,
the beech's copper into the air, reaching vainly for the pine's dark strength.
The trees quivered and were silent as the wind raged around them;
they stood with dark trunks rooted in the earth and crossed boughs held
uplifted to the heavens.
As Jared gazed at the boughs, now almost bare, he saw on every twig
tight buds outlined against the sunset gold: the crimson secret of the oak,
the enscaled cradle of the maple, the little sheathed sword of the beech.
"Faith, my friend," the pine seemed to whisper, "faith has the last
word always."

The Journeyman~Elizabeth Yates