There is a tree, there, next to the bayou.
Can you see it? No?
Perhaps if I point out that it is a live oak
With moss hanging from its branches–
No, no–you haven’t seen my tree yet;
You’re still looking at your own tree.
My tree’s the one with long, spreading limbs
That sag under the weight, dipping
Toward the dew-soaked grass.
On the left side is one branch
That hangs low in a gentle curve
And almost touches the ground.
Look there, at the base
Of the huge gray-brown trunk–
An animal has burrowed a hole
Among the knobby roots.
Step closer now–closer, please–
Can you see that three-inch wide scar
That runs up the trunk then along the branch
Jutting to the right and then curving upward?
Lightning did that.

This tree is two hundred years old,
But I created it in a matter of minutes.
If you like it you may have it.
I can grow myself another one,
Perhaps with squirrels in it this time.