There was an oak tree. It was tall, taller than he, and green. He did not know how he knew it to be an oak but he did. And as he stood beneath it's canopy, he could see a sea of saplings.
Kin and creature, wind and Motherfather, had taken the acorns from this tree -- his tree -- and flown them free to become their own oak trees. The acorns were cracked and the seeds within were sprouting. And while around him life bloomed, his eyes were upward as the leaves from above fell, one by one.
In one leaf, he could see his birth. He saw the sac break and the sun above his oak tree brightened. In another, he saw now and he saw elsewhere a world of kin. He looked away. And as the leaves fell and the visions came, he felt himself grow old. And in the last leaf, as the oak withered from old age, he saw his -- their -- death.
Around him the sea of saplings was all grown but instead of leaving, he stayed. He turned, curling down near the once-lone oak's trunk, and he slept. Waiting. They would pass together he knew. And indeed they did, the oak and its heart.