A haibun for the dverse prompt.
At the bottom of the meadow runs the stream, backed by poplars, giants standing side by side, defying the wind. On our side of the stream, long ago some farmer planted willows to counter the erosive action of the water and keep the stream in its bed. Eight are left of the long alley of silver-leafed guardians. Bowed with age and the weight of their branches the others have gradually sunk into the moist earth with the purple clandestine that grows around their trunks. Bowed and split, they lay, tangled with wild vines, and cow parsley high as my shoulders, until we chopped them down, the trees that would never raise their heads again, and trimmed the dead weight from those that would. Eight willows sprout anew, silver wands reaching skyward. The clandestine is hidden now, sunk back among the tree roots, waiting for spring. In its bed, beneath bramble-hung banks, Le Caillou babbles, chattering to the silent deer and the nimble fox.
Roots delve deep, stream runs,
delves deep banks among tree roots,