The Dueling Oaks

Hundred of seasons have passed beneath these majestic live oaks. Men fought their insignificant duels here. Men died here. But before the muskets were fired, the Natives made their peaceful camps, and fished the bayou. And smoke curled through the limbs like the curl of the limb itself, mimicking the curve of the bayou as it crawled slowly to the big water lake. The men who fought the duels are gone, the Native Americans are gone, the seasons have passed away. But the breeze of memory stirs the leaves, and the limbs creak and moan. The trees pour out their grief. The children are shadows, the men are ghosts. Yet you still may hear a child's laughter, may sense the campfire's smoke, or the acrid smell of black powder.