Once a dozen oaks lived on this third
of an acre. Only four survive, the others
watered to death in favor of grass
for little girls to play on.

My parents had no idea that they
were killing the great valley oaks
—quercus lobata—including my favorite,
a trunk that angled out of the ground
at a perfect tree-climbing angle.

But one by one they collapsed,
a limb here or there, till their
massive structures gave way,
collapsing in a gargantuan whoosh,
much as whales fall to the ocean
floor when it’s their time.

I cried for each one.

Still, four quercus wislizeni,
craggy and stubby interior live oaks,
rise in places the sprinklers never reached—
the trees’ barbed leaves near the bottom
to discourage deer and other nibblers
morphing into smoother versions
near the top. They live, these stubborn
ones, a bit defiantly, hearty survivors
found only in our native state.

Watering a parched lilac nearby, I stand
shaded beneath one venerable elder,
admiring the live oak’s thick leaves
that help it retain moisture, so elusive
and precious in this overheated
summer.

If you walk with me around the place
that my family has tended for nearly
six decades, I can show you where
every one of their brethren stood,
the long roots still sunk dozens
of feet into the granite-y earth,
anchoring us all to this very spot.