Low, low clouds, in a masquerade of mist, sit squatly up on the hill,
amidst trees furred with moss and lichen.
Branches bowed and cracked in the snow’s wake litter the soft footbed of mulching leaves.
Transplanted beasts, shaggy pelts damply waved, turn quizzically towards passers-by.
And the great king of trees, rooted here for centuries, waits patiently
to be gently taken for a ride.