Walt Whitman, Song of the Open Road.
This Oak tree is a part of my daily life. I have observed this tree through all four seasons now. As I walk my familiar loop the road dips down to a row of houses encroaching on the canyon below. Trees and houses co-habit.
My Oak is naked now; the last leaves relinquished their hold weeks ago and the teasing wind twirled them diagonally to the ground. The acorns plunged en masse on to the roof of the house; celebrating their freedom with a startling rat-tat-tat.
I pass beneath the branches and find myself looking up and marveling at the sculptural silouhette against the sky.