The seeming death of a forest giant.
Even this close to the river, the intense heat of an Andalucian summer has taken its toll. Perhaps death is too strong a word.
As this ancient alder sits here, millions of life forms are preparing to return it to the ecology from where it sprang.
The tightly twisted and curled leaves, testament perhaps to the virus that may have ended this particular cycle of life, are falling to the ground where the soil dwellers eagerly await them.
Already the bark will have been gently dusted by countless spores ready to begin the decomposition of this vessel of wood.
The birds perch, peck, delve, and burrow into its softening flesh, while this same medium is sustenance for the tunnellers and borers of the insect world.
For now, its roots hold the riverbank in its sinuous line and the fox lies in its shade, while above me a spider is anchoring its web to a slender branch.
So death indeed is a strange word to use for something that is still in so many ways the focus of a shimmering life within the sylvan nets of this place.
Perhaps when I return to this spot in the Spring, I will find only an empty hollow, as the husk of this tree will have been blown down and washed away in one of the great winter storms.
In its stead, the bare earth will provide a nursery for whatever will follow in the wake of this old tree.
For now though, the branches seem to rise plaintively toward a spring that it can never know again.
The tale of the riverbank is both long and continuous and death has no meaning here.
Photos: Dead Alder on the Almodovar. Courtesy of the author.