It is my desire to sniff you out from whatever hole you hide in and lure you out into the open. Your destruction is the only thing on my mind.
The daydream of my soul: a wide field, quiet as a pine tree, with a single oak, old as Abraham, set in its eye like a diamond in an ornate silver ring. You sit beneath that sleeping treant, and to surround you is a fresh autumn afternoon laid to rest in the casket of night. Soft and cool whispers of the earth tickle the leaves above you and fondle your long, dark brown hair as the moon sneaks out from between two low-hanging clouds.
It is in that place that I appear without warning, my weapon drawn and your end assured. A glimpse of recognition tears across your grimace, the fear of shock not able to give way to the next logical emotion, trust, because of the swiftness of my movements. Yes, you would move to trust me and not fear me because you do not know me. You do not have any idea who I am or what I do. You don’t know who I am in the least.
You are not fortunate enough to have the time to feel or contemplate your misplaced trust; you do not have time to scream at my attack; you do not have the time to feel regret for not being able to stop it, or anger for my betrayal, or curiosity as to who I really am.
I unleash an overhead swing, a single stroke aimed at the top of your unguarded and reposed face, your porcelain-like smooth skin and brown marble eyes echoing the beauty of the forest gods in every way, including the subtle glow that is eternity’s kiss of promise.
The next moment, I feel the resistance of your brain matter and skull against my sword’s sharpened edge, the trembling of my wrists as I try and fail to wretch the sword free from your lifeless, glaring head, the hot, sticky blood climbing down the double-edged blade and narrow hilt and dropping into my arms.
Do you know who I am now?
Yet, in reality, we have passed the fall, and the heart of winter’s careless cackle screams its approach on the morrow’s horizon. Yet, in reality, there you are, careless as ever, longing for the winter to return, not knowing what that means to anyone else around you–especially me, of all people.
Yes, you long for the winter, and you spare not the faintest embers of kindling to the poor of soul and spirit. You have killed the rest of my forest so that there is but one tree remaining, and surely this year you shall destroy that last one, and then I, spirit of the forest, shall be no more, all for the sake of this wood you must burn. And of this burning warmth of fire that you create for your own satisfaction, you offer me not the most insubstantial portion with which to warm but the soles of my feet.
Therefore, am I not the bigger fool for allowing you, selfish human, to cut down my woof without retribution, even without the tiniest rebuke?
Still, rather I perish as my particular brand of fool than live on while being yours. There is yet a tiny, insignificant twinkle of hope which from time to time surfaces like a mullet in a river, jumping above the water for no other purpose than nature’s sudden demand.
Perhaps this reason is the only reason in existence why you still breathe, live, and otherwise inhabit the space of my forest, which you have cut down for your own personal gain and at great cost to me, labeling yourself as a dissident against my people and against nearly everything I am, yet owning it and doing whatever you please with it as if it actually were all your own.