Night moved in, softly, stealthily, bringing with it myriads of tiny, sparkling stars and a silver sliver of moon.  Somewhere in the distance a coyote mournfully soloed his evening song, and a thousand chirping crickets took up the chorus.

         The tree stood silently by, as if this natural sequence of events had suddenly taken on new meaning, even for it.  The other trees bent their heads together, singing in low tones, as if discussing the latest hill gossip.

         Noiselessly, I watched.  The tree suddenly stirred, stretched out its slender branches, sighed to the wind, bowed its mighty head, and lifted it again, turning it skyward.  There in the vast expanse of black eternity was the frail little moon, clinging desperately to the horizon, shy and lonely.  Round about, the stars were gather in tight little groups discussing whatever stars discuss, apparently uninterested completely in the stranger moon.

         It stood by itself, silhouetted against the sky, straight and lonely and beautiful.  I had seen hundreds of pines before, but somehow this one was different – more majestic, more nearly perfect, perhaps, and yes so distinctly aloof, so alone.  There on a hill, in the fading daylight I stood and regarded it, wondering, awed, inspired, somehow by its beauty and solitude.  Behind it the sun had begun its nightly artistic attempt, streaking the sky with shades of red, blue, daubing yellow here, burnt orange there, smearing, dripping, dabbling, feather-like markings were placed on the blue canvas, causing the tree to stand out in stark contrast.  The frenzied artist painted on, daubing and smearing alternately, running the gamut of the color chart and then suddenly wiping the whole vivid creation into oblivion, leaving only a few streaks of soft color scattered along the horizon.