They sway back and forth with the mediator, the wind, and speak volumes on history and ethics, morals and passion. The oak sits on the edge of the farmland near a birch. The two have been raised together, grown together, lived together. They’ve seen each other’s darkest moments: trimmed, broken branches falling after a storm. Yet, they disagree. They’ve seen the same days, the same nights, the same people coming and going, but they tell eachother that the other is wrong and can’t see eye to eye, trunk to trunk. So I sit and I listen and absorb the lesson, and the stories of years gone by, and think of how if these two trees can’t get along, maybe we never can, either.

The wind nods in its agreement as I make my way back into the farmhouse.