We stood out front briefly. We had just returned home from a weekend away. Ben had fed the dogs and was leaving. He had a weary look on his face, too tired to talk for long. And he was distracted by an incoming call once or twice.
As he stood there, he looked across the yard.
“What is wrong with the oak?” he asked.
It has burlap sacks wrapped around its trunk from the ground up to where the fair and industrious Trudy was just able to reach with with extended arms and clothespins in hand standing on a metal yard chair.
“It is dying,” I said. “Our Monterey Oak is dying.”
O Oak thou art sick. The Yellow-bellied Sapsuckers that tap at trees among the spreading branches have found thy trunk and shade-throwing limbs, and the marks of their love doth thy life destroy.