04/02/2025
The air turned cold, like a switch being thrown. It started as a hint, and then a whisper. Then came the waves, slowly at first but before long it was all white.
She drank in the fog, and sighed. It was part relief, but mostly pleasure. it had been a long, hot summer. The grass around her on the sloping hills was brown, the soil was cracked and parched.
She was a survivor. The strong winds had broken one of her larger limbs, and the insects had occasionally stripped her barren, and even one passerby had carved into her trunk. She survived the long drought.
The droplets of water that collected on her leaves found their way to the ground, at first disappearing into the brown clay as if they never existed, but eventually saturating soil with life-giving water.
And she drank.
And as the jays quarreled and the squirrels gathered, she sat in quiet contemplation
And she witnessed. And she loved. And she gave, because that was her favorite thing to do
The Live Oak - Story and art by Michael Veneziano
