The castle was a home of arm-deep walls, the stones of yesteryear hewn and stacked. Its door and shutters were well kempt oak; how they sang of their forest days. Within the floors were a yawn of warm and sunny squares, heat radiating from below. And into it the sunlit shone through windows two-men tall. Doorways led left and right, stone steps rose up and up. Such places are made for family and more, for a happy crowd of hearts.
The daisy meadow was hugged with warmest rays that stretched out as a hundred arms or more. The sun was so strong that day that the dawn sky was not blue, yet a honey-peach. It could have been another world with that tangerine sky. Yet the grassland and the daisies were singing Earth’s most familiar song. Its words were long within the breeze-breath, as long as those outstretched arms, and yet retained the clarity of any fabled yarn.
The flute sang to the stars until their deepest hearts did pulse. In return the heavens did not sing, yet poured as water into the valley and remained there as star-freckled blackest ink. This, my friends, is no legend of old, for I saw it with my own eyes. I felt it with my own hands. I swam in its perfect ambiance, for it was both warm and sweet. As I dived within the flute music returned and oxygen did inflate my lungs. My pilot light burned brighter, swelling my heart anew. The flute I played that day is with me still, a humble yard of silver, a 'cup and string' telephone that divinity chose to answer.
Upon a midnight blue road, puddles moon-lit, the T-Bird flew on. As the countryside left and right became a Monet blur, yards became miles. There were hills and mountains along the way, at times a curveless, optically infinite, highway ahead. This was where eagles fly. This was the road from prairie to shore. White lights in front and rose lights as anti-shadows, it glided toward its destination as if it were a dream on automatic.
On a crow-black night, the tree met its last. Beneath conspiratorial clouds of purple edge, it creak-groaned. Long had it been the home of owls, sanctuary and nesting place. Long had it been the king of trees. Yet even the strongest can fall. Even the most mighty can be felled. That night in a chainsaw wind, in an electric lightning swarm, it made its last salute to the forest it loved. 'Acorns. Acorns. Grow! Grow!' were its final words and wishes.
Legends arise from feats of soul. When the pure heart beats the monsters for for the betterance of all, when virtue is upheld, their story becomes a never-fade echo for the ages.