{ the will of god }

It’s not that the split oak is so impressive—and that’s not to say that it’s not—it’s just that we’re tired.

So we piled up some leaves, jumped into them and threw them about, piled them up again, fell backwards onto them and then ate the rest of our trail mix.

Emily claimed all the M&Mish candy coated chocolate pieces and I sorted through to make a pile of them on her stomach.

We’re both covered in dirt. Leaves in our hair. Twigs and sticks stuck to our clothing.

It’s freezing. The sky is glowing. White. Winter waving. The wind wooing us. Us covering up in leaves. Eyes looking up; the two halves of the split oak are swaying. Branch into branch. Shaking hands. It’s grown what must be fifty feet, the trunk into two a third of the way up. Two impressive trees in one. Siamese oaks.

And Emily says, “Why did it grow like this again?”

I tangle my legs in hers and say, “It was struck by lightning.”

She laughs. “The will of God! Adam and Eve, the trees!”