For the first time in a long time, friends gather
to visit the ruins of Wolf House, the mansion
that Jack London built. It burned down
days before he could move in, and now rises
from the forest as a grove of broken stone.
Afterward, the group strolls to London’s cottage,
where he wrote ten novels. The tree branches thunder
in the wind, requiring loud talk for normal conversation.
The professor points at the brown, gnarled, noise-making oak.
“It’s known as the Witness Tree and was Jack’s favorite.”
Another member, a scientist, gestures excitedly:
“The park was about to cut it down
when the Rangers defended it.
It’s an entire ecosystem, they said. Its roots spread
four times the width of the branches,
intertwining with a fungus called mycorrhizae
that delivers water and nutrients to the oak
in exchange for carbon.”
Suddenly, the tree clamor quiets. The great oak
speaks though most people fail to hear.
“The scientist squints at the truth
and almost sees it. The rest of you are lost.
You don’t understand my language,
but you rely on the security of my shade,
hear me beat the wind’s drums, and marvel
at the colors of light through leaves.
I wish you could join our biological city.
If I spoke to you with my chemical tongue,
you’d hear me and give me back the life that’s mine.
My limbs breathe from heaven’s lungs.
My roots drink from the earth’s heart.
Mai-koo-ri-zee, mai-koo-ri-zee dances with me.
I am the mother to many oaks. My roots
entwine theirs and live on in them long after I’m gone.
Altogether, we dance the greater dance of
plants, animals, and earth spreading across the Sonoma hills.
Unlike oaks, humans cannot travel without moving.
You talk, talk, talk but never connect.
How painful to uproot so often for so little!
Forget the dead pillars of Wolf House.
I need your protection and you need me.
If we exchange roles, if you become the witnesses,
my roots become your roots:
Join me, humans, in the shared life.
If we grow together, we all survive.”