OAKEN RAMBLE

Here comes old frost-bearded Winter any day now, to toss that thick white blanket of tiny stars randomly all over the mountains and here I am, sitting in a weatherless office in the distant city fiddling with alphabetical strings on a computer, words that don't exist but as lifeless subliminal pixels rooted in virtual 1s and 0s abstractly representing some electrodichotomy or other, while those actual fat golden slices of oak I sectioned last weekend are just sitting there up on the mountain, yearning in that oaken way beside the splitting stump beneath the leafless, wind-shivering plum tree, the oaklings casting their forlorn multi-ringed gaze (like giant woody puppy eyes) up at the imminently snowy sky and saying with that silent but effective oaken voice: "Where is Bob? Doesn't he have roots? Aren't there any leaves on that head of his? Doesn't he know we should be split into golden ingots by now and stacked up like genuine wealth so we can begin acquiring interest as soon as oakenly possible and be of optimal worth by next winter? These momentary humans can't be expected to understand time like we do, but doesn't he at least think in seasons? Doesn't he grasp true value, the way our roots and limbs do? What's the point of fiddling with a plastic keyboard in a walled office in return for some scraps of pulverized trees, while the real thing just sits here right on the ground like this, in complete violation of tree behavior? Doesn't he know there's a season going on? Is he going to burn that handful of earned paper in that stove of his when the weather gets tough? If we're not split and stacked into at least a couple of fat cords - worth more than gold to a freezing human, by the way - what's the point of his tapping out all that office-y stuff that wouldn't warm an acorn? That sky is looking more and more like snow... The priorities of these flimsy humans are nothing like oak. Why, when I was just a sapling in the strengthening wind...