I saw a method in the wind, a face in the trees, an intelligence in the light. Keen thoughts beyond the ken of mortals peered at me from behind the glinting eyes of an owl set high in a cypress. Wood arms spread wide, the scene welcomed me against a cloak of leaves and a staff of straight pine.

“What would you have of me?” I asked.

The answer was in the wet warmth of the ground, the steam of a hot day bleeding into the night, and the chorus of insects that rose above it all: go forth and burn those who would defile me in this place, my home.

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