The oak is a sturdy shrub with gnarled trunk and twisting branches, growing high into the sky. When not in bloom, it might not quite catch your eye, but after the winter snows and a trace of rain in the spring it comes on suddenly and gloriously like a swan, like a maiden, and the shaggy limbs go out of sight behind tense clusters of leaves creamy green, like wild lettuce, each with its five perfect petals and a green center. My favorite oak stands before me glittering in the sun, ragged roots clutching into the ground upon which it feeds, rough dark boughs bedecked with a rash, with a shower of brown. A female, this ancient oak of a tree may be three hundred years old; growing very slowly, the oak attains a height greater than a hundred or two hundred feet...(Edward Abbey)...The oak provides dancing shade here in Columbrian, the shadows making love with the light. I come here to mediate, do yoga, write and read. It is one of my spiritual spots in the cocoon of the 'Qua. I am clean so if my weird actions attract attention and the MAN is summoned no harm can come to my person. I missed the summer but I have grabbed hold with a passion the ensuing breath of the fall. I greedily soak up the remaining warm breath of departing summer absorbing the warm rays of the sun into my being, hungry for its heat.
