The tree bark was an alien terrain for the wandering eye, yet more than that, a community unaware of humankind.
The tree had the most beautiful skin, every brown from deep chestnut to rich mahogany. It changed too, as the day matured, as the sun came to strength, illuminating the details that made it such art. Some say they love nature, I guess they do, but I'm in love with nature and that's another thing all together.
Adelle stopped. There was a tree whose bark swirled like water, as if it had flowed from the deep earth rather than grown there. She followed the eddies and curls, half expecting them to move, or perhaps a beetle to float by in an acorn boat. She reached out to feel it upon her skin and felt her next breath go in a little deeper.
The bark upon the tree was like curling cream, as if it couldn't help but become like a ribbon upon the most exquisite of gifts. Other than those delicate natural pages opening into the forest, it was quite smooth. Tom imagined the tree to be made by the most patient of hands, encouraged upward toward light that rains down to quench the eyes.
The bark was the fingerprint of the tree, ridges raised and silvery in the morning light. To the touch it was the kind of roughness that comes with a father's whiskery kiss. Lena allowed her fingers to walk the craggy surface. Always there was the tingle, the feeling of the spirit that dwelt within.
In that woodland, the bark grew lichen the colour of tangerines. It had that feathered look, as if it perched there, ready to fly. Yet in truth it was wedded to the tree, following the shape of the bark. On the rainy days they took a deeper hue, the bark and lichen, lighter in the summer months. There were times I adventured from the path and used it as a compass, loving the shaded north side as it did.
In the bark were valleys, as if eons of rain had carved them into the tree, making her a sculpture as unique as any landscape. It clad the tree in all seasons, a rich brown to warm the winter and an earthen compliment to the foliage of spring and summertime. Perhaps the majesty of the bark was less noticed in the parade of autumn, when rich golds and scarlet tumble in their ever changing mosaic, yet Alan always noticed it, the constant amid the change.