Driving across the dam road
I can see the hill where,
months ago as the grass

greened and the old oaks
leafed into spring, I followed
the path to a particular

community of cousins,
the quercus lobata that
rooted themselves on this

slope long before I planted
my own young tendrils
in the soil around this lake.

The heat has kept me away,
grasses turned to straw,
inviting a stray spark that

could race up and down these
hills charring everything.
I hate to see them like that,

so vulnerable these venerables,
with their pewter-colored bark
the texture of alligator hide,

though softer deep inside, too,
upright, sheltering friends
who have taken me under

their great umbrellas
of kindness, without a word,
the valley oaks that have

always seemed to know
my name.