Treeman

By Mary Lou Hattery

Treeman is talking to me. We have had an ice storm; in the bright morning sun Treeman is all aglitter! His sturdy dark trunk is outlined with ice and his branches gleam. His crown of brown leaves look like they have been dipped in silver. “Look at me” he says, “I am beautiful!”

Treeman’s proper name is Quercus alba. He stands on the edge of a glacial finger that the Indians called a Paha. He would not win a beauty contest. His trunk is furrowed and his branches knobby. He’s lopsided as a result of a lighting strike awhile back. He rises far into the sky, a sentinel of the timber. A squirrel’s nest perches in a high crotch and an owl roosts in a hollow made by a fallen branch. Below, on the south facing slope, deer bed down, spring beauties dance around him, and wild turkeys scratch for acorns in leaf litter. Song birds sing from nests hidden in his foliage.

Thirty years ago loggers harvested this timber; Treeman is a survivor. The undergrowth flourishes around him—slim ironwood and black cherry, gooseberry bushes and grapevine, an elusive patch of morels. A few of his offspring are nearby; small trees that are shapely and robust. Someday they too will reach high into the sky.

Treeman Quercus alba I say to you “Your legacy is safe with us! We will watch over you and yours as long as we are able!”