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Some Kids I Have Known
The Wren and the Oak


The Wren and the Oak

The tiny Wren twittered and warbled as though her bit of a heart might burst. The gnarled branch of the old oak tree where she rested might as well have been the arm of some mighty giant as far as the bird was concerned.

"Old Tree!" The wren spoke to her dear friend. "Old Tree." "I really do wish you would join me in a flight or two?"

The aging tree hung his smaller branches down. "Ah, you know I can't lift my roots away from this place." "They go so deep I can not possibly rip them away from the earth below me."

Nervous and busy the wren flitted in and out, around and about, here and there all through the sky holes between the branches there.

"There must be a way ." "We must think hard." "Surely, there is a way we can go off for a fantasy of flight."

As the tree thought hard the brows of his rough bark wrinkled. His boughs bowed low.

"Ah Wren!" "There is no way." "You are my friend." "It is true."

"Here I am." "And here, I must stay." The old oak swayed ever so slightly, moving only just a fraction of an inch in the blowing winds.

Away flew the little wren. She was off to places of the country, a part of the city, over the prairie and back again to the protective branches of the old oak tree. While she was there she sang in her lilting warbling way.

Old oak loved her song and the telling of tales from the visits she made far and near. As she built her nest he was glad to break the stiff breezes to save her niche and place closer to the ground. He grinned a closed lip grin from side to side of his trunk as he watched her flitting about. She seemed to stay for only a second or two in one place and then she was gone again.

So flew the days that year until the wren's daughters and sons were first babies and then grown to continue just as their mother had done.

After the winter gales abated and slipped into gentle breezes of spring again there appeared among the old oak's branches one of these lovely little daughter's of his friend.

"Old Oak." She said. "I love you so." "It pains me to see you standing here so solid and stately, but alone." "Don't you think you might come and romp over the meadow with me a bit?"

The wise old oak once again wrinkled his heavy brow. Still yet another year had made him wiser some how. "Aw how sweet your song, my little friend." "I'm so happy you're here again." "It gives me the greatest pleasure to watch you slipping away from these branches." "I do not have to travel away with you to have my chest rise with joy untold." "The same pleasures you have over the terrain are mine too with you time and again, simply told to me with your warbling song, and it makes me strong."

So it went, year after year. The old oak stayed at his place. The little wren's daughter's came to him year after year. Her brave heart was a promise of gentle green spring seasons, and with her visits and songs it was as though the tree had seen all the places she had been, as well. He felt as free as the tiny bird because his mind flew across meadow and plain with her while she shared her song with him.

Author's note: 
This story is to that part of the Native American culture which deals with the clans.  Each clan was useful and co-existed with the other clan. In this case the tree to the woodlands, medicine clan of plants, who did not fly so freely but,  were more bound to duty. The wren here were The Gives Waters who were the ones who moved about more freely, and were very dedicated to family.


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