The great oak tree that reigned over a not insignificant portion of the mouth of Rubio Canyon, on the slopes of the reservoir, has lived there far longer than I’ve known it. It stood tall and wide last time I ambled up the trail that passes under its broad forest green canopy, a month ago, almost to the day. Since then, sadly, it has perished, from the weight of years, illness, struck by lightning, natural causes at any rate, I’ll never know. I do know however that the the sound this stately gnarled trunk emitted, for an instant, up and down the canyon, when it split, was louder than the peacock flock on Maiden Lane, louder than the cock(s) of camp Huntington, and the omnipresent crows, louder too than the saws and shredders that will be dispatched to clear its carcass. That much life cannot does not exhale in silence. A tree falls and the whole world reverberates. It wants us to know, the tree, now is my time to wither, to feed the soil so it does not forget, this is a land where my acorns are currency because these damn gray squirrels spread them all over the hillside, digging holes to bury them and then forget, they’re spreading my seed, which will one day, in the right circumstances, grow into a majestic survivor like me.
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