Over the weekend, my bride wanted to investigate some nearby roads. Her stated purpose was "to see the river." We've seen the river, which despite its claims is not white. But we were looking for context. Our new home is much closer to the East Fork of the White River. In fact, one can get there within a couple of turns and short drives from the road where we live.
I've been married just long enough to know when to give in, but not long enough to do it often enough. This time I did it right. We drove down our driveway, took two left turns, crossed the railroad tracks, and found our road had skipped the gravel phase and gone from paved directly to dirt. And ruts. And a little bit of mud. We saw fields, tree lines marking the course of streams, and the edge of the river. This was the bottoms, but not the section where I'd spent some formative hours in my youth. Our course took us back across the tracks and ended at the nearest highway, beyond which were the roads I knew. And there we went.
My bride has a thing for solitary trees. In more pensive moods, the deader the better for her. She likes the stark image of bare branches against the sky. At one spot during our drive she saw a tree that nearly fit the bill. It wasn't dead, but it would do. We got close enough for photos. In truth, we got too close for a photo, turned round, and came back as I looked for the best angle. She's a passionate woman, so we had a brief discussion of my auditory capabilities and aptitude for directed activities (specifically within the context of her direction). My limitations in both areas keep things lively for us. However, I successfully reversed direction and there it was.
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| The boss meets The Boss |
There has always been something special about this tree to me. I'm sure there are larger, more formidable trees elsewhere along the course of the White River's East Fork. They probably are within a very short distance of this tree. But this one draws attention by its separation.
You can see trees at a distance all around it, but it stands alone. Its crown is a gnarled knot of branches--some healthy, some feeble, and others long dead but remaining in place. I don't know how long it's been here, but can imagine that this tree has borne witness to at least a few generations of farmers, floods, droughts, and years of abundance. And during that time, I am certain that it has performed its role in nature right on cue year after year.
We got out of the car to take a few pictures. Vines have embedded themselves in the bole of the tree. Scraggly growth labors to survive at its foot. Birds flitted among its branches, calling to one another.
Later, that image lingered with me and I thought about the relationship between leaves and trees. The result follows:
The Boss of East Fork
There is a hillock on the plain
of the White River bottoms.
It’s an anomaly. A freak.
A question defying answer,
serving only as a landmark.
A tree grows apart on that plain.
It is wide of girth. Tall and worn.
Its crown is splintered, but serviceable.
It, too is a landmark.
This is the Boss of East Fork.
In Spring, the Boss sent out his minions
to search for light,
to slake his thirst,
to dress him in glorious new finery
befitting the Boss of East Fork.
The minions stretched, unfurled and spread.
They embraced the sun and imbibed the rain.
They created a new ring as a gift. He accepted it.
He was determined to thrive,
was the Boss of East Fork.
Soon, the company of courtiers created
song and shade. They rustled, they whispered,
they hinted of change.
Time would come to paint them all and to
paint the Boss of East Fork.
The rumors were true. Time was
lavish with its dripping brush.
For a season all around were amazed
by the color, the splendor, and the
bold beauty of the Boss of East Fork.
But Time took as it gave.
The vibrant life that suffused the cohort
dried. It withered. It faded. They let go,
pale shades of themselves, and dropped into sleep
at the feet of the Boss of East Fork.
© 2015 David L. Colbert
The Boss of East Fork
There is a hillock on the plain
of the White River bottoms.
It’s an anomaly. A freak.
A question defying answer,
serving only as a landmark.
A tree grows apart on that plain.
It is wide of girth. Tall and worn.
Its crown is splintered, but serviceable.
It, too is a landmark.
This is the Boss of East Fork.
In Spring, the Boss sent out his minions
to search for light,
to slake his thirst,
to dress him in glorious new finery
befitting the Boss of East Fork.
The minions stretched, unfurled and spread.
They embraced the sun and imbibed the rain.
They created a new ring as a gift. He accepted it.
He was determined to thrive,
was the Boss of East Fork.
Soon, the company of courtiers created
song and shade. They rustled, they whispered,
they hinted of change.
Time would come to paint them all and to
paint the Boss of East Fork.
The rumors were true. Time was
lavish with its dripping brush.
For a season all around were amazed
by the color, the splendor, and the
bold beauty of the Boss of East Fork.
But Time took as it gave.
The vibrant life that suffused the cohort
dried. It withered. It faded. They let go,
pale shades of themselves, and dropped into sleep
at the feet of the Boss of East Fork.
© 2015 David L. Colbert
