Beneath the moon’s soft silver gleam, An ancient pine recounts a dream. Of whispered tales through rustling boughs, Where time herself briefly allows. A traveler paused in twilight’s hue, To hear what only pines construe. Of mountains old and rivers deep, Secrets the winds in confidence keep. Two centuries of sun and snow, Witness to all things come and go. Yet standing tall with gentle grace, A living memory of this place. The stars above begin to gleam, Still listening to the pine’s long dr...