I wanted to borrow a poem from a poet—any poet—to go with these images of a stump I found in Grant Park on a morning walk. But I couldn’t google anything up that would speak to this:
152 YO QUERCUS ALBA
HIT BY LIGHTNING
The black Sharpie marker spells out everything you need to know about this white oak anyhow, I suppose.
In a way, I can understand the brevity and I can understand that’s all the author could say because there are no adequate words for what it means to live in this land of electric neon ghosts. We all have this same stain, burned into our souls as if we, too, were struck by lightning.