The stately oak stands solemn and quiet Alongside the bucolic covered bridge Its branches hanging downward as if tired Leaves falling slowly into the current Of the rain swollen Watauga River
The shadow of the tree clinging starkly Onto the weathered century-old planks Speaking of a time not so far removed When bridge and tree was the gathering place For a day's respite from a hard week's toil
Farmers, merchants, wives and children gathered With picnic baskets filled with fried chicken The women chatting in their new bonnets The children wearing last year's Sunday best While the men make bets like Roman soldiers
The low mound where the tree's roots are anchored Bare earth beneath the lowest hanging limb A crude stool of newly cut pine upright While waiting for the next unwilling guest Courthouse clock chimes the hour of Golgotha