There is a young, wild oak in my backyard that could serve as a fitting symbol for late fall/early winter, an icon of the season between the seasons. All the other leaves are down, forming a welcome blanket to shelter the forest floor. But this tree holds on to autumn, and its maroon red leaves remain. This oak will continue holding on to its tough but tattered leaves until the storms of winter blow them off one by one. A few will endure every storm and will not relinquish their station until—their watch completed—they are at last pushed off by the tender green leaves of spring. This wild oak, with its rich dark maroon leaves, like a sentinel stands at the edge of the woods, a silent watcher of all the winter winds will bring to our home.
I think my human mind cannot conceive such steadfast relentless patient endurance. I could learn of the wild oak.