The oak tree shelters the memory of many forgotten days. A distant tree, shades of memory and the falling rain; elemental. They hark back to an ancient tale telling of cycles and linking it all to another great and living story. This story is collected and contained in memory. Like seeds on dry land, they awake wherever it rains.

I think of rain trees, the ones that stood outside my school when i was a little boy. They are able to detect the rain. Leaves would curl in anticipation, the branches will cower down, humbled by the revisitation of sky. The trees shut themselves, shy to behold yet almost quiet in full respect of the showering gladness. The downpour finally comes, the leaves bend in benediction, asking for nothing yet receiving everything as only a sky can give.