Just a small exercise to practice my descriptive writing. Inspired by a writing prompt - the image of a wooden chest being opened to reveal golden, glowing mysterious and magical looking light. My interpretation being the chest is a toy box. Naturally, I begin telling its story from the very beginning.

My earliest memory is of the sky.  It was an early summer morning, and the sun was just rising.  It was incredible, the way the dawn just started bleeding out of the horizon - washing away the night with golden, radiant beams of color.  I could feel the warmth seeping into my roots, slowly rising into my my core and from there, spreading to my out-stretched limbs.

That first gentle morning breeze was next.  You know the one.  The soft, gentle kiss whispering through you for you to wake up, breathing new life into the world again.  That first morning breeze sang to me.  I've been alive ever since.

The wind always had the first notes.  The song birds joined in next, their chirps and warbling crescendoing gently.  Their melodies were crisp, but tender and bright - accompanied by the gentle shuffling of my leaves.

It was this first memory that kindled my love for the early mornings.  None since have ever quite compared, but neither have they ever been anything less than spectacular.

Unfortunately, when you have lived as long as I have, every day just kind of blurs into the next.  When I try to reminisce about the day-to-day happenings, I feel only a warm fondness.  I can remember that the seasons changed, but after so many, even those blurred right from one to the next.  The stark quiet of a world blanketed in a lonely, glistening layer of ice.  Such violent contrast to the vibrant colors from just weeks before: swaying oceans of red, orange, and gold both on the ground far below me and in my branches, too.  

Of course, in another few, short weeks the ice would melt and the birds would come home.  The sky hid behind enormous gray clouds as the rains let loose and nourished the world around me.  When we all had our fill, the rains would leave and the flowers began their ballet.  They bloomed and burst into fantastic, fragrant scenes of startling and overwhelming beauty.  The soft spring breezes drifted through, and we danced and swayed to the ballad.  

The End

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