The Oak Was Strangely Neutral

A frosty morning of new Spring, just before the ancient copper bell commenced its plaintiff sounds sending them from the monastery into the countryside, to sinners, their contemplation while listening to the first song of the lark, and watching, with lustful eyes as the milkmaiden crossed the bridge, hurrying toward the barn and docile cows, hawthorn and a thousand suns of dandelion, painting the meadow now, while waiting for the shadows of the oaks and firs, and the stringy hair of weeping willows, standing, swaying as if to speak and let all know about this great uncertainty of life, here in the hidden valley, where just one hamlet stood, a shabby though romantic cedar shack, a dusty glass attempting to reflect the sagging chimney that sat, in awkward pose amongst the moss, and had been good enough to build a nest to house the happy couple, the noisy Crows. She sat, so deep in thought and filled with silence, she never heard the halting steps, or heard the stifled cry, which signaled a completion, an answer for one man that suited only one, he would have hesitated in his praise for others, there was a sudden raw finality buried within himself and his demented choice, but then, he would not know, no wisdom was to flow into a future he had tied and roughly dropped amidst the singing of the lark and of the bell still calling from within the ancient monastery, and, close, the hamlet's stony face, below home to the busy chatter of the happy Crows. At last she saw, he hung, strangely in pose dead eyes still open, nodding now as if to say Yes it was proper though I would not recommend to anyone, or you, a lovely girl who dreams, to follow me into a world without a rationale. No words were spoken yet she understood and watched for hours, with her hopeful eyes for just the smallest sign from him, suspended from the majesty of that indifferent oak, but it was not to be, he could not move his head from side to side, and if there was a whisper it was never heard, that day by any living soul.