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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. |
