Oak

Can you walk that branch
halfway up the old oak?
No hands.

It’s wide, and strong and ancient
but it’s a long way down—
all the way down.

Down to safety,
to habit,
to the soft rot of comfort.
A warm bath
filled with decay.

It would be easy to jump.
Tempting.

It's sharp up here,
the air cuts clean,
alive with risk.
Leaves flare like sparks.
The branch hums; bluejays tune the air, goldfinches ignite it.
The distant horizon opens,
a world full of promise.

You could run the length of it,
feel the bark bite your feet,
catch the wind by its throat.

Maybe you’d fall.
Maybe you’d fly.
You'd surely feel the tree
dreaming you forward