The God Tree
The last punishing storm of summer brought down the God tree—so called because of its age and enormity and because someone had carved “GOD” in the bark. Splintered branches scattered across the woods. Where it had provided shade in the deep thicket, now light rudely intruded. Exploring the wreckage, I could not find the engraving, but the sea of twisted sticks writhing like serpents in the gusty wind was proof enough. All around, trees continued living, fattening, spreading their arms wider. In time they would be as thick and lush as God; they’d fill in all that glaring emptiness.
Photo Credit: Stephen Pierzchala
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