DWP - transformation: prompt

the old man sits on the bench under the tree, clutching the collars of his coat. the wind blows every now and then and the leaves of the old sycamore behind him flutter to the ground, kissing the grass before the wind carries them farther.

it never fails to amaze him, this tree. in the spring it has been the keys that fell from it, and in the summer it has been its shelter that he has sought every time the sun shone too long up in the heavens. then as autumn approaches, he stares in wonderment at its changing colours. when winter comes, he knows, the view would still surprise him with its snowy covering, as it has done all these eighty years.

it is a cycle he never gets tired of. and he knows, the tree would still be there while his own body has been ravaged by nature.