The tree stump lay on its side
exposed
roots in the air
still clinging to the soil
which had supplied its nutrients.
Two feet of stump
all that remained
of the giant that towered
hundreds of feet
above the ground.
Rings telling of
300 years
of history.
Three inches of bark
protecting against
how many forest fires?
Fifteen generations
having passed by.
What story can it tell?
Of watching Native Americans
hunting prey
Of wild mustangs
galloping by
Of neighbors
becoming canoes
Of lightning storms
and searing pain
Of scouts exploring
this new land called America
Of settlers trudging by
their wagons reaching the end of their journey
Of neighbors
becoming cabins
Of children climbing up and up
and being used for a lookout
Of swings
hanging from branches
Of buildings going up
all around
Of trails
being worn
Of roads
smoothed away
Of boardwalks
being hammered down
Of the West
being tamed
Of tracks
being laid
Of telegrams
sent
Of carriages
making way for cars
Of wars
and cultural revolutions
Of asphalt
being poured
Of highways
being cleared
Of cookie cutter developments
appearing overnight
Of neighbors
becoming forest management
Of death, and dying and destruction
Of life, and birth and regeneration
Of miracles, and creation and God
Of locals and tourists
Of hikers and bikers
Of fishers and swimmers and waders
Of the daring, the reckless, the brave, the courageous
Of lovers and friends and heartbreak
Roughly 300 rings
just off the path
waiting for someone to read.
