The Old Tree

A twisted and deformed tree stood, silhouetted against the sky, Reached up its claw-like twigs as if in anguished cry, Bare of it's lush summer coverage the winter through, As between the branches webbed winged bats flew The bark all rotted and scarred, with termite trails, And gaping wounds left by yearly storms and gales Here and there, clumps of grass and feather Left by resting birds, sheltering from icy weather, Icicles from the crooked boughs, hung toward the ground, And the moon gliding without cause or sound, As the great trunk groaned at the wind that lashed, And then with creak and shudder and last sigh, It crashed.