The Methuselah Tree

There's more than wind through here. It's all mid-stream. Maybe once I'd kept abreast of movement until my nerves ached and dilated in the strain. So now I've earned my salt. Drink another drink that heavy roots won't hold. Creak, only to branch again, but scorn the take. This blighted a yolk only turns. Stay hidden beneath the earth. In turn, I've plowed my salt. I've earned my salt.