She stood as a lone testament to her strength.Aged, but none the less beautiful. She had weathered untold harsh winters, and just as many scorching summers on these barren plains. Unwavering, always the lone beacon, sometimes a guidepost, and just as often, it seems, a target, she none the less stood her ground, just as she had for untold years, and proved to be the focus of many an admirer. She had not weathered all the storms, all the years and all her admirers without suffering her fair share of scars. Deep, carved scars. Bullets to the very heart of her being. Steadily, and just as assuredly, she grew and developed. Winters were the worst. Cold, these plains could break lesser beings, not her, she was a survivor, she suffered the winter so that each ensuing summer was that much more bearable. She never left her place, she never bore fruit, that just wasn't in the grand plan. She was ironwood. She was the lone Oak of the plains.