The Old Oak in Winter
January 14, 2026
There is an oak at the edge of the meadow that must be close to two hundred years old. In summer it disappears into the general green, but in winter it stands alone, every branch drawn in dark ink against a pale sky.
Without its leaves you can read the tree's history: the low limb that broke in a storm years ago, the scar where lightning ran down the trunk, the hollow where a family of owls nests every spring.
I walked out this morning after a light snow. Fresh tracks circled the trunk, a fox by the look of them, and a pair of nuthatches worked their way head-first down the bark looking for insects tucked into the cracks.