An oak tree is a gracious host, standing roadside for a century, reaching out to the hayfields and the scurrying travelers with an offer of shade. The hillbilly relatives grow wild, untamed up on the ridges and in the secret valleys hidden from the road, roaring with laughter as the night winds carouse. If they could make moonshine, they would.
The largest, oldest oak on the road you used to live on fell about a month ago. It was mostly dead and scary to run by under. It fell while I was away because one week it was there, then the next completely gone. The tree did leave its mark by smashing a fence, putting a kink in a telecom wire and scrapes in the road where the machinery was used to clean it up. Probably 3 years of wood heat all gone too, most likely to the dump. What a shame! Two eagles seemed lost without a place to perch.
The largest, oldest oak on the road you used to live on fell about a month ago. It was mostly dead and scary to run by under. It fell while I was away because one week it was there, then the next completely gone. The tree did leave its mark by smashing a fence, putting a kink in a telecom wire and scrapes in the road where the machinery was used to clean it up. Probably 3 years of wood heat all gone too, most likely to the dump. What a shame! Two eagles seemed lost without a place to perch.