Behind the house the lonely old oak tree stood like a sentinel in the night. Occasionally a raven or two would perch on a branch and squawk up a storm, but most nights the old tree quietly watched over a solitary slab gravestone. On rare clear nights Yasmine joined the oak in solemn thought. She’d sit there on the slab watching the moon rise. When there was a breeze, the oak would treat her with a fluttering chorus dropping a few red or yellow leaves onto her golden head.

One night, Yasmine arrived with a gift. The strongest branch gripped the end of the rope holding the hefty package full of nutrition. Yasmine opened the present and took her place reclining on the slab. The cool granite against her naked flesh pulled the heat of the day away. She enjoyed the quiet there in the field far from town. Most of all she loved moon-bathing. As the pale disc climbed into the sky, the oak parted branches letting moonlight through. The night air caressed her flesh and teased her hair.

Drops pattered the ground, and roots soaked everything up.

Yasmine imagined her late husband watching from the grave. His jealousy made her grin.

The old oak held onto the rope, but the load on the branch tested its resolve. Drinking in the nutrients, the tree grew stronger. The wind pushed, branches waved, and the rope twisted. Drops sprinkled the ground, the slab, and the soil again.

Hearing the oak moan, Yasmine opened her eyes and watched her lover swinging upside-down. Blood droplets splattered her chest and face filling her senses with delight, and the dangling body left a trail towards the trunk and back again. Her lover showered the soil. The oak had needed a good drink and already appeared a shade stronger.

She’d need to add another grave, a good start to her boneyard. It’s guardian, the oak, would soon be lonely no more.