The Magpie

Hidden in the heath-lands and mires of southern England, in an old forgotten wood long since trodden by human wandering, there stood an old proud oak, so ancient that, like all other things having reached an age of wisdom and patience, they flourished a mane of silver, camouflaged by the auburns and greys of autumn's flavour that permeated the woodlands, lingering on the leaves, hanging from them and weighing them to the ground.
 It was here, above the overgrowth, that there stirred a wind that lifted those lost leaves into a flourish of colour, then twice and then a third time before a sudden gust lifted the forest floor. Mice and voles scurried from the unexpected nakedness and squirrels watched careful and curious from the tree branches.
 When it all settled, it could be seen, directly beneath our great silver crowned oak, a small opening had appeared, where it's roots had become torn from the ground and pulled with it the earth, where below that earth was a lack of earth that stretched far beyond lights uncanny ability to cast itself, where below, thought one curious eye, must have been something.. Where below must still be something.. Where below, one magpie found his path lay.