The branches of the once great oaks parted with each blow of the crisp, winter winds. Their bare limbs scratching at the night sky like tormented souls whilst the ominous red moon glared back. The leaves of this once abundant forest had long since decayed, leaving it a shadow of its former self. The lake, the hub of the forest, once filled with near crystalline waters albeit with an algae-green hue, now empty. Ebbing tides controlled by the movement of the now angry moon long stopped, the lake bed cracked and desolate like an old forgotten painting.
The old man was wrong, sticks and stones were never used, as there was no one left to use them.