<html><head><meta http-equiv="Content-Type" content="text/html; charset=us-ascii"></head><body style="word-wrap: break-word; -webkit-nbsp-mode: space; line-break: after-white-space;" class=""><div dir="auto" style="word-wrap: break-word; -webkit-nbsp-mode: space; line-break: after-white-space;" class=""><div class=""> <span class=""><font class=""><font size="+1" class="">In Muir Woods</font></font></span><span class=""> </span></div><p class="">Last night, a giant redwood fell</p><p class=""><font class=""> either from old age, disease, or<br class="">"sometimes they just give up," the ranger said.</font></p><p class=""><font class="">Listen, I was in the woods, I <br class=""> heard it too, like my own death <br class="">falling inside me.</font></p><p class=""><font class="">Here in the last of the old growth forests <br class=""> where some trees are still virginal, <br class="">some older than Moses,</font></p><p class=""><font class="">I thought, then, of you. You are not the one <br class=""> dying, you said to me, <br class="">and I quoted to you from Montaigne</font></p><p class=""><font class="">that death was not a proper object of fear <br class=""> but only the end of life.<br class="">What <i class="">is</i> a proper object of fear, you asked,</font></p><p class=""><font class="">and I said death of the heart.<br class=""> But life, you said, was <br class="">everything. And you were in love</font></p><p class=""><font class="">with that beautiful lie.</font></p><p class=""><font class="">Sometimes these trees send out<br class=""> all their sap at once<br class="">making them vulnerable, sometimes,</font></p><p class=""><font class="">they grow burls of anxiety</font></p><p class=""><font class="">Look, the ranger said to us,<br class=""> the bark is so wet because the tree <br class="">drinks hundreds of gallons of water a day</font></p><p class=""><font class="">from the fog that rolls in<br class=""> over the Golden Gate Bridge.<br class="">That bridge which is so beautiful and which</font></p><p class=""><font class="">holds such promise for tomorrow <br class=""> with its blue shimmering bay. <br class="">Every day when I see the fog now,</font></p><p class=""><font class="">I think of you and then I can almost <br class=""> feel the fog cover me with<br class="">that enveloping mist, can almost feel</font></p><p class=""><font class="">the branches of the redwood <br class=""> being kissed by its cold <br class="">ministrations. I would, if I could,</font></p><p class=""><font class="">stand here all day like these trees, but my <br class=""> heart is so sore, it is almost ready to burst, <br class="">and I am filled, suddenly,</font></p><p class=""><font class="">with a wild and insatiable thirst.</font></p><div class=""><br class=""></div><div class=""><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space:pre"> </span>- June Besich</div><div class=""><font face="Times New Roman,Times" class=""><br class=""></font></div></div></body></html>