The old oak creaked.
Many sweethearts had carved
their initials into its flesh over
the years, yet the tree remained
alone.

Once upon a time, it had held
a swing. Children swung to
and fro, laughing in joy.
This pleased the oak no end.

Another time,an escaped prisoner
sought refuge within its thick
boughs. He stayed for days,
avoiding searchlights and sniffer
dogs.Eventually, of course,he was
caught.

The fallow months were the worst.
Winter brought a shedding of the
proud coat of leaves, leaving a bare
skeleton, unattractive in the moonlight,
yet a beacon for the downhearted.

What more could the old oak expect?
Was this life all there was?
Was its existence defined by human
interactions?

All thoughts were then sidetracked
by some rustling within its branches.
A nest of chicks had begun to sing a
sweet lullaby, as the mother flew back
and forth with food for her young.

The old oak creaked,
this time with pleasure.