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Air

ANCIENT WORDS

The trees sense my agitation as I walk briskly along the bank of the river.

“They bring disease,” the misty breath of an ancient oak tree sings to me.

“I know, Mother,” I stop and exhale my thoughts toward her. “They are afflicted by a virus.”

“The disease I speak of is not of the body, but of the mind.”

“I do not understand.”

“They have forgotten that our roots are all connected to each other.”

“Yes, Mother. But what can I do?”

“You must help them, for otherwise all shall perish.”