shriven

This is the way of things. A long line of succession—the cherries pioneering the forest’s frontier, the white pine saplings crowned with light where an oak’s absence has opened the soil to the sun. Farther down the rooted path ahead of us in space and further down the one in time, balsam fir settles in the shadows of the pines, omnipresent now, leaving only the oldest oaks to suggest hearty, balanced trees in front yards somewhere, with sturdy branches low enough to hang swings from. But suggest only, as a hardened general suggests the father, off-duty, tucking his son into the crib. In another ten years, the last oaks to remember the pasture will snap with ice, and the darker trees will drive their roots, their claim, into the land.