The Perplexed Oak

As wind swept through his branches and caressed his leafs, the Oak Tree felt himself sway with its gentle push. A content sigh escaped from the cracks in his bark, for what more could the world offer him, the tallest and widest tree in the meadow? His branches spread far, a majestic canopy lording over all around him; the foxes that nipped at one another during playful dances, the squirrels and the birds, their chattering and chirps tranquil music carried on the breeze. Even the wise owl swore fealty to his majesty, diving from his branches in the pale moonlight at her prey; little woodland mice that built homes nestled in his roots.

            But one day, after the harsh winter’s snow had melted away and the world once again erupted into life, the Oak Tree noticed with astonishment a curious sight. Snuggled in a nest resting between two of his branches, two darling songbirds sang in unison. A vibrato quivered in their tones, carrying with it a perplexing hint of something else.

            “Little birds, why do you sing so curiously?”

            “Mr. Oak, we are in love,” they sang in unison.

            “Love? What is this word? I have never heard it before.” And he spoke the truth. For though his knowledge was vast and his vocabulary grand, the Oak Tree had never before heard a word filled with such elusive meaning. He puzzled the word over, swirling it in his mind. L-o-v-e. Love. “Why, what an enigma! Little birds, you must help me discover the meaning of this strange word.” 

            They blinked in confusion. “But Mr. Oak, don’t trees know what love is?”

            “No. We trees know of many things, the joy of sunlight, the pleasure of spreading our branches far, and hatred of the axe. But never in my long life have I fancied to know the meaning of this new word.”

            The male bird considered his reply for a brief moment. “Love is, well, the feeling of providing for someone special.”

            “So do I love those who make use of my shade?”

            The female bird perked her head up. “No, it’s something more than that, Mr. Oak. Love is a feeling of dedication, of caring for another bird and your young.”

            “But I do not care for the other trees. They are all far away. Nor do I know my young. The wind and squirrels take my seeds and disperse them throughout the land. Surely, there must be something else to this emotion you feel, this word called love.”

            The birds sang to one another, trying to devise a means to help the Oak Tree. Finally, they relented. “Mr. Oak, why don’t you ask the squirrels?”

            “Little birds, what an excellent suggestion! Little squirrels, I have a question to ask of you.”

            Two inquisitive heads peaked out from a hollow in the Oak Tree’s trunk. “What is it, Mr. Oak?”

            “The little birds sang a song, a song filled with something unlike anything I have ever heard before. They called it love.”

            “Love?” asked the male squirrel. “What do you want to know about love-I mean, how could you not know about love-don’t be absurd, don’t be ludicrous, one as old and strong and large and powerful as you must know what love is.”

            “I wish I did, little squirrels. But I have no knowledge of this word.”

            The male squirrel’s eyes widened. “Well then, Mr. Oak, allow me to officially inform you-though really, how can you not know what love is-it’s inside all of us.”

            “Tell me then, what is love?”

            The male carefully considered his answer for a moment, scratching his face with his front paws in contemplation. “Love is the feeling of being with a lady squirrel-a nice one with wide hips and a large, fluffy tail.”

The Oak Tree’s branches moaned and creaked. “Then love is only a result of physical desires?”

The female squirrel chattered, “No-no-no-no-no-no. Ignore my silly husband-he’s a tad bit foolish. Love is cuddling in a warm den, far from the winter’s snow and the jaws of foxes.”

“Love is a feeling of security? Then why go through the trouble of using the word love, when many other words suffice? You creatures of flesh are truly bizarre.”

“But wait Mr. Oak-the most bizarre animals approach now-maybe they can help,” said the male squirrel.

The female squirrel chimed in. “He’s right-look at them, walking on two legs and talking in their strange language of grunts.”

The Oak Tree regarded this new couple. Humans, he knew they were called. He understood their tongue perfectly; had to, lest an axe catch him unaware.

“Honey, honey,” said the man. “Remember this tree, remember when we played on its branches?”

“How could I forget? It was the perfect moment.”

The Oak Tree had given up on recognizing humans long ago. Hairless creatures, filled with malice. But perhaps they too knew the meaning of love.

He called to them, but they gave no response, too involved with each other to heed his voice. Then he shouted.

The man looked into the woman’s eyes and said, “It sure is windy today. Listen, do you hear the tree branches creaking?”

“Why yes, I do. How odd, how profound; but come here my darling. Or is the wind more important than me?” asked the woman while sitting down, leaning against Oak Tree’s trunk.

 The squirrels gossiped excitedly. “The two-legs don’t even understand the voice of the tree-how barbaric-why, how rude!”

And the birds sang in unison, “Though they claim to create progress, they’ve shunned the greatest gift of all. Behold the tragedy, Mr. Oak. They shun and ignore you.”

The woman pointed at the songbirds. “Listen to them! How beautifully they sing, and only for us! Our own little choir.”

The Oak Tree called forth, “Little humans, please help me, for you seem in love. Help me understand what it is, this emotion reserved for creatures of the flesh.”

But they ignored him.

“We have to remember this moment forever,” said the man.

“How, my darling?”

Smiling, the man proudly drew a red pocketknife from his pant’s pocket. “We can immortalize our love in the oak tree!”

With mirth and careful hands, he carved a heart encircling initials. The Oak Tree groaned his protest, but the man ignored the rattling branches, the clenching roots. And when he finished, he clutched his honey’s hand, and together they wandered away from Oak Tree, their laughter echoing throughout the meadow.

Sore and exhausted, the Oak Tree thought long and hard. Had love led them to stab a knife into his bark? What a savage deed, a horrific deed, to be performed for something positive. Then perhaps it was false, perhaps the birds and the squirrels and even the humans had deluded themselves; all of them enslaved to a violent emotion.

“Love is useless, the origin of evil,” said the Oak Tree. “You creatures of the flesh can keep it to yourselves. I want no part in such a hateful emotion.”