The Trees
High up in the middle of the big chinquapin oak is a dove’s nest. I discovered it one day quite by accident. I was standing by the tree with my hand on the trunk, thinking how thick it felt and remembering back to the days when we planted it. It was head high but had a thin trunk and needed to be staked. It stayed that way for several years before gaining its independence.
On the day in question, as I was admiring the thickness of the current trunk, I decided to try and shake the tree. I gave it two or three good whacks to satisfy my curiosity, just enough to spook the dove from its nest just over my head. I got a scare; she got a scare and off she went. I also learned the tree was sturdy and had put its time in the ground to good use. Of course, I really didn’t need to shake the tree to know how well it had grown, but sometimes you just have to touch things, lean against them, have a tactile relationship.
It’s the same with the burr oak at the east end of the house. It’s branches are spread wide, and the tree is tall and the trunk thick and there are acorns in the leaves and maybe a bird’s nest, but I haven’t looked. And I like to stand beneath it, my hand on the trunk or a branch and try to set my pace to the tree’s pace, to slow down, to feel the wind in my hair, the bark in my hand, and to know with any luck that this tree I planted has a chance to live 400 years. I wonder if it will remember me.