The little, lone tree watched from its fated spot as seasons came, and seasons passed; crops were planted, and crops were harvested. Humans would come, and humans would go. Birds would keep the little tree company, only to fly away as the seasons changed. Clouds would drift overhead, only to disappear over the horizon.
Seasons came, and seasons passed; and came, and passed. And the little, lone tree watched silently, rooted and permanent in the tiny, ever-changing field it knew as home.