The roots of the Ashe and Oaks gripped the earth like talons of eagles dug in to precious prey carried for the fledglings who would soon fly and needed their strength. The trees were strong and tall and stood against the wind, exercising their limbs, adding bands of hard wood to their cores. They stood alone and together, a stand against the elements, defying time and the harsh fickle weather of Nebraska that often strikes without fair warning, the cool prevailing winds of the west sweeping over corn tassel, soybeans, and wheat, clashing with the warm moist air of the gulf stream, spawning tornadoes and thunderstorms that crack the mirror of the pale blue sky and pierce the heart with lightening bolts.

Trees with shallow roots littered the woods with their rotting carcasses, pungent like mushrooms growing in dense, damp mulch. The dead fed termites and housed large, black, carpenter ants whose bulging segments gave them the appearance of muscular body builders industriously hauling slabs of food for the queen in their pincers like men with fork lifts or bulldozers.

"The woods are lovely, dark, and deep but I have promises to keep, and miles to go before I sleep, and miles to go before I sleep," thought Jack as the immortal words of Robert Frost whispered in his ear. As the sun set, Jack gazed at the darkening, color-splashed woods being eaten by dark matter erasing the distinction of form, and listened to the chatter of night calling him into the haunting, where the land spoke and complained to the stars, land plowed year after year without rest, plundered of its treasures.