First you’re a train rolling down the track. Then, there is no track. Then, there is no train. Kumi
You took a final look up and saw on the hill, about thirty-five feet above, the scraggly remains of a once towering oak that was now weather-beaten, leaning and broken. Bark-less, it stood; defiant, proud, still giving its branches for nests and resting vantage points, and its internal parts to those critters so inclined to avail themselves of the resilient facade.
There it was, hanging on. Not as a renouncement of life, but as a testament to it. An iconic gesture to the heavens that all was perfect. It, too, had something to say. Its depth was infinite. Its discourse, eternal.
And you walked away with the memory of one word – scraggly.