When I saw this boulder, the resting place for this fallen tree, I got a clear image of the past. This tree, vital and strong. Then laying across the rocks, perhaps as a climbing post for small creatures scurrying up to the top of the rock. Rainstorms. Snowstorms. Sunlight. Time.
Now, slowly broken down, piece by piece, bit by bit.... until it is a skeleton of its former self.
Is that what will happen to me? Will my death, at some unknown point in the future, tell a story of my life?