They call you Big Doug an I wonder if you like the name or are oblivious to the hikers who come to gape at your size as I have. Is it rude to stare at a tree?
I sit at your base, on roots of a tree seen in any other context could be considered grand yet nest to you it seems small and insignificant. Your stature reaches toward the sky with branches only near your crown - they appear to be arms outstretched to welcome the sun.
The stories you tell are in the cracks of your bark. Burn marks from a long forgotten wildfire scar your trunk, the bark seemingly more fragile than the rest. small shrubs have started to sprout from the debris in your crevassed bark.
You're an old being, an Ent taking the time to tell your stories. To whisper you wisdom on the breeze. Living a life of quiet contemplation among your peers conversing through the creaks of your stems, the sway of your limbs and the buzz of life around you.
What shall I call you you other than venerable?
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