The Sentinel

The mighty oak stands alone,
An anomalous sentinel
Presiding over a barren hill,
Doing leafy battle
With the wind.
The tree was a gift
To the local skyline
By some magnanimous donor,
Either man or God.
However it got there,
It was planted
Long before my time
And it has stubbornly grown
Year after year
Surviving drought and deluge,
Thriving in isolated neglect,
To become
A formidable giant.
It’s seldom visited
Except by occasional hikers,
A few wandering cows
And a couple obnoxious crows
Who call it home.
Those who come
Generally stop
To relax in its shade
And enjoy its lofty point of view
Overlooking the surrounding area.
Who knows what history
The tree has witnessed.
It could have been there
Before the Spaniards came,
And may well be there
After all of us are gone.