The Introvert

The walks I used to take at home in Mississippi told me more I think of men and such than all the chatter of the lecture hall. My eyes would move from tree to tree and see a soul in every trunk. I met the extroverted oak and thought he did not care for what I said. He had the brawn to stand a storm; his roots meandered far and wide. I said he touched the Earth too light that way. His pride in such an insubstantial stay was sure to be his downfall if indeed he would not set a deeper tap. But then my eyes engaged near by a shattered introverted pine.