The Wistful Asylum
The oak tree in the front yard has a split in its trunk. You know this because you have looked at it for forty years. You know the angle of the fracture, the way the sap has dried into a dark, resinous scar that looks like a weeping eye. It is a white oak. *Quercus alba*. You know the Latin. You know the specific gravity. You know the tensile strength of the heartwood, which is why it holds,...
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