* * * * * * *
The morning unfolded as delicately as a lily, offering soft blue skies and a gentle breeze. The air smelled sweet and fresh and he could sense that it was going to be a good day. He set out for his morning walk as his wife prepared breakfast, the usual path, his favorite, that he had walked since boyhood. The morning was filled with birdsong and all the familiar animal grunts and calls. In the distance, he could hear the trumpeting of an elephant. Perhaps the little female leopard had come too close. The sun felt good on his back, like a cloak of warm feathers. He walked a mile or so with his stick, making jags and circles and sweeps in the dust.
As he did each day and would continue to do for all the rest, he made his way to the ancient baobab, his favorite tree. It had been a good friend to him when the days were long and sweltering or his back sorely needed a firm trunk to support him. It had been a place of shade and drink and many, many dreams. He crouched down and set his stick to the earth. He propped his back against the baobab’s trunk. He inhaled deeply, let it go, and looked up. Through its gnarls and knots he saw birds fly overhead, saw spokes of sun dance through the limbs. A lourie flew in and perched above him making its usual squawks and shrill calls. “Go away, bird,” he puffed, “this is my tree.” But the lourie knew better and sat still and silent.
He closed his eyes. His tree felt good. She had never felt better.
