Witness

 In the heart of southern Louisiana, where the air hangs thick with humidity and memory, an ancient live oak stands. Its trunk is gnarled and swollen, twisted by time and thunder. The bark bears the calligraphy of centuries—etched by storms, carved by hands, scarred by sorrow. Exposed roots coil outward like the ribs of the earth itself, gripping the swamp’s dark belly as if afraid to let go.

Spanish moss drapes from the branches, long and silver like the ghosts of forgotten prayers. When the wind sighs through, it stirs them to life—pale, swaying reminders of the nooses that once swung there, heavy with silence and injustice. The tree has seen it all. Two hundred years of dawns rising red over the bayou. Of rain flooding its feet, of children playing beneath its shade, of blood spilled and secrets buried in the mud.

It is not merely a tree. It is a witness. A keeper of stories that humans have long tried to forget. When you stand before it, you feel a pulse beneath the bark, a slow and ancient rhythm older than any hymn. The air hums—a language beyond sound, a communication between modern man and something far more enduring. The oak remembers a world when the swamp was wild and untamed, when spirits moved freely between cypress knees and mirror-black water.

And yet, amid the heaviness, there is a strange grace. Moss glows green in the dying light. Fireflies gather like tiny souls returning home. The old oak, weary but unbroken, whispers through its leaves: bear witness, but also forgive.

Standing before it, you realize you are being seen—not by a god, but by the land itself. The swamp breathes. The tree listens. Time folds in on itself, and for a moment, you are both ancient and alive.