The Old Grass Tree (Short Story by @stormsage)

I’ve been here all my life, from the moment that daylight first shone upon me and allowed me to slowly grow many years, each day partaking in the circle of life as nature intended and changing with each of the seasons.  I stand firmly in one place and watch the odd passer-by, migrating through on their way to ‘greener pastures’.

The area where I live has barely changed over the years, rain, sun, winter, summer, day and night.  Sometimes the grass and leaves became so green it looked like a garden of Eden, then as it got cooler day by day the vast greenness would become a symphony of colours, pale yellow, burnt orange, crimson red, earthy brown and all the shades in between.  Then there were the hot summer days, when all the wattles were in full bloom and the air was filled with an overwhelming assortment of rich, sweet aromas carried upon the soft breeze that rustled gently on by.  And I shiver even now when I think of some of the bitter frosted nights when even the hardiest of souls would feel the cold bite, praying for the morning sun to hurry and rise so that they could feel its warmth.

All the seasons are pretty much dependable; you can rely on the winter rain and the summer sun, with the exception of the seasons when the extremes of all variations of weather occurred.  Like one of the first autumns I can remember where it rained so much that everything, and I mean everything, became water logged to the core and even if lightning did strike, everything was far too wet for anything to ignite; streams were rushing by carving their own paths where there hadn’t been even a trickle of water there before, anything without a good footing or anchored down was being washed away by the seemingly endless downpour.

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