There’s an old oak tree not far from my house. When I say old, I mean it could be thousands of years old. How long does an oak tree live? Gnarled stump, twisted heavy limbs, tall, as tall as a building. Nothing grows under its wings. They branch out far like an umbrella, blocking the sun, killing all that would try to root below its massive reach. If one sits a spell under its canopy, dream, day dream of things it’s seen, heard, felt, time has no meaning when you’re an oak. There is a slight cup in one side facing the west where the storms come from. It seems to fit my back as a good chair fits, snug but comfortable. I find myself staying just a little longer, listening to the talk of the tree. Gentle breezes move its leaves, making a purring sound that is pleasing to ones ears. I day dream of those that have come and those that are long gone from this world. All come, all go, the oak cares not. I sense the oak has helped the passage of a few in years gone by when throwing a rope over one of its heavy limbs and then around the neck of an outlaw was considered laws carried out with justice. It’s time for me to get back to the busy life I live, but I’ll be back soon, I wish for more stories of this old oak.
From the Ramblings