Searching for a needle in a haystack

Eira... She stood there staring, crouched as low across charcoaled knees and hocks askew, witnessing the otherwise inconceivable scene unfold while desperately hoping she wouldn’t be next. There was, however, a gentle grace with his slow, measured movements, mercifulness that she was yet to experience of the Rift - his domain - and though she couldn’t explain it, Eira felt soothed and settle in his (intimidating) presence. The stranger - paler, prettier in every respect, female - was removed from their company, quite blatantly, by the tree-folk’s long, kindling fingers; and though the orphan’s nerves flinched, rampant beneath the wooly canvasing of coat, there was quiet marvel in her dark blue eyes as they noted the natural grain and leafy texture of his being. The Living Tree was among the finest of nature’s miracles, that she had ever seen; a blessed feeling warmed her through and the constant chill which gnawed voraciously at her bones, seemed to ease. Rain channeled down the ancient, shadowy lines of his long, textured torso, pooling in various hollows and skirting around knots; though she searched earnestly for sign of a face, the wilting, glossy foliage which shrouded each limb, seemed to obscure his higher half. Eira let her gaze descend, and she realised (for the young horse was in tune with the natural world and an intuitive character), that the old creature seemed tired - standing before her with less visor than the forest of old giants surrounding. “How old are you?” she wondered in silence, filled suddenly with the heavy weight of sadness. Even as his creaking, groaning figure began to sway lower and fail towards its final rest, the sickly yearling had some deeply rooted understanding of the universe and the cycles of their comparatively insignificant lives within it. “Is this your time?” The fear which had been, was gone. It felt, in that moment, like Eira the Living Tree were all that existed. Fine, twiggy fingers, still gentler than she could’ve ever, possibly imagined, glided forth before a long, dying bough - his arm - and the child’s benevolent gaze embraced it with a quiet sense of grief  pooling within. One black, cloven hoof scuffed forward through the rotting litter, and the rest followed with respectful measure, until she was extending a sorrowful kiss towards the denser wood at his crown.  “Thank you…” "I am a book of snow, a spacious hand, an open meadow, a circle that waits, I belong to the earth and its winter."

- Pablo Neruda, Winter Garden