specimen at the crossroads
no. 01 · tr-coll.
stands where four paths cross, none of them at right angles. a tree taller than its own shadow at noon, and at dusk a darker shape than the dark around it. the bark is grooved like a thing that has been writing the same letter for centuries.
cows, when there were cows, leant against it. the path on the south side is worn smooth by the rubbing of their shoulders. now it is leant on by walkers and the tired pause of any small business that brings someone from the forest back toward the river. acorns in their season, black and brown and rolling.
if you put your hand against the south face the wood is warmer than the air. the explanation has to do with sun, with memory, with the way certain things keep heat for reasons you cannot quite finish saying.
field note — at the foot of it, a single nail, hammered in at the height of a man's hand. nothing hangs from it now.