A Tree in the Shore

Over the purple horizon, the yellow orb ascended over the sky. One by one, streaks of orange made their appearance making the leaves of the lonely tree gleam in gold. Its strangely rooted trunk bathed in the continuous caresses of a small, foamy shore. The ants knew about the tree and I daresay, not one ever set foot on its hold. No swift hummingbird ever savored the sweetness of its fruit. The sun was slightly spreading its rays and the produce of that unnaturally common-looking tree began to outshine its light.

Lost in slumber, the tree was lost to man.

“This tree’s gonna make some fine ol’ firewood,” cried the man with dusty overalls.

His companion, a sturdy middle aged truck driver spat on the soil.
“Sure is, Bob,” he growled.

“Never seen something like it, Ned.”
“What ya mean?”
“I mean, look at us, coming all the way to the shoreline to cut a tree in the middle of the beach,”
Ned sneered, handing the axe to his farmer friend, “This is stupid if you ask me. Why cut a tree here if we can use one from the grove?”
“C’mon old pal, don’t you see it? It is for good luck’s sake. Plus, the tree looks old, as if it’s been here for centuries,” Bob argued stretching the axe with both hands.
“Give it a good blow,”

Bob’s momentum was a finely artistic moment if one could but contemplate it in slow motion. However, the colliding result was unexpected. A clank was heard when the edgy axe touched the trunk’s surface. Ned stared in shock.
“Bob, you o.k?”
But the guy in the dusty overalls was dead. A sudden wind swept through, and the skin as if reactive to air, began to rot and decompose in front of Ned’s eyes.
“Bob!” he cried helplessly trying to reanimate the bones that were quickly dissolving to sand.

The axe lay head down in the soil; next to it, only a pair of boots and a dirty trouser remained, soaked by the continuous foamy water. Ned remained unmovable, his ankles wet with the upcoming flux.
“Bob?” he mumbled looking at the floating trousers driven by little waves.
Some pigeons responded from afar, an echo in pursuit of fish.

That was when he noticed the fruit. If hardly describable, the color could mean much to a gold miner. But the fruit was far too yellow to be yellow. The produce had the shape of coconuts, but far too spherical. Round, one must say? It was hard to tell, the glistening light of its reflection made its silhouette impossible to discern.
“You hungry Bob? Cause I am.” The floating overalls now in the deep blue ocean floated away in the distance.
“Oh, I see… you just leave me here with an old tree. Well, I ain’t waiting for you,” he grunted in madness.
He stretched a hand and the fruit gave in with a perfect snap.
“Sure you don’t wanna eat?” he said giving it a bite.

Ned stopped his monologue. The fruit tasted great. He clenched his teeth in ecstasy feeling the freshness of palm trees in his breath. It was as if soft air currently ran down his throat quenched in ambrosia. He felt livid, young. The soft breeze in his veins could almost speak.
“Life is purity… life is purity…” it seemed to whisper.

Ned smiled feeling the soul of endlessness in his body. ‘Wind and soul, they are the same,’ he pondered. His glittering eyes where the last thing to vanish. Only a coarse jacket, some sandals and a pair of jeans, evidenced the mortal’s approach to the Tree of Life… but the frothy waves of the sea caressed in small waves its old trunk, carefully soaking the garments deep into the fathoms of the ocean.