Alan Ashe

Oak trees stand tall and barren. The green of summer gone now exposing the twisted branches, tangled together like a massive web.

Leaves once connected to the mighty oaks cover the ground below in a carpet of brown. The remaining few still high above their comrades, desperately clinging to their host. Left alone, the grounded fall of leaves become nutrients returning their favor for summer beauty.

The majestic oaks sleep and only speak when the chill of winter wind slips through the web of branches. Waiting for the return of spring. Waiting to begin the cycle once again. Waiting to be guardians of the yard.