The Lone Cypress

Time, like beauty, is in the eye of the beholder. For the mayfly, life is a single day. For her, decades were but a breath. For more than 250 years, she had sipped from each storm, tasted each sunbeam, and watched the era of tall ships give way to the era of the tourist.

She thought of time primarily because so many humans spoke of it in her presence. A desperate worry of fleeting lives. Perhaps it was on their minds because she had outlived their grandfathers and will outlive their grandchildren. She was living proof that beauty can be the ability to stay exactly where you are meant to be.

She did not feel old. The hills often marveled at the speed with which she danced and moved. The ocean treated her as an infant, whispering stories centuries in the telling. She supposed even the sun and moon were young to someone.