Bench

Bench

At the end of the field, there is a hill.
At the hill, there is a lonely Turkish oak.
Lumpy, filled with a lot of red, tight growth rings.
Stands angry and stout.
Sometimes a Golden eagle rests still on the highest branch,
or a Peregrine falcon flies by chasing sparrows away.
The hill is neither rocky nor a true home of a Turkish oak.
Wind couldn’t bring it across the road.
Maybe children played with acorns,
or a lonely traveler brought it into the pocket, played, and dropped it.
Secretly the tree settled and grew here.
It branched out and became a domestic.
Under the Turkish oak, there is a heavy wooden bench.
In the summer, there is shade, silence, a view of a flower field,
and the steep rocky hills and forest of the Turkish oak across the
road. I pass and look at the bench from a distance
It seems to me; that my son is sitting there.