Bench
At the end of the field, there is a hill
At the hill, there is a lonely Turkish oak
Lumpy, filled with a lot of red, tight growth rings
Stands angry and stout
Sometimes a Golden eagle rests still on the highest branch
Or a Peregrin falcon fly by chasing sparrows away
The hill is neither rocky nor a real home of a Turkish oak
Wind couldn’t bring it across the road
Maybe children played with acorns
Or a lonely traveler brought it into the pocket, played, and dropped it
Secretly the tree settled and grew here
It branched out and became a domestic
Under the Turkish oak, there is a heavy wooden bench
In the summer, there is shade, silence, a flower field, and a view
To the steep rocky hills and forest of the Turkish oak across the road.
I pass and look at the bench from a distance
It seems to me, my son is sitting there.