An Ode to a Tree

In the center of every village stands a great, grand tree, easily a century old. It is the town's meeting place, a shady spot to nap, a landmark, the heart of the village. It is supremely graceful, its leaves reaching out in a perfect orb. Neither a neighbor or the elements has diverted it from its slow upward crawl to the sun. Outside the village the tree's cousins dot the landscape, each more striking than the last. The family is varied but even within the same species each tree tells a unique story of its patch of land over the past few decades.



Looking over the landscape one can see, of course, the mighty baobab trees that, undaunted by difficult conditions, reach incredible heights and massive girths. There is a tree in Fatick that perfectly emulates the illustrations in a Seuss book. The Neverdie tree in my yard yields bunches of leaves dried for tea or used fresh as a sour condiment. There are trees filled with the homes of weaver birds vibrating with their collective calls. Even in their death, trees are cut and hauled into villages as benches soon to be well-worn by a thousand conversations. There are trees that stand silhouetted against a crimson sunset, perhaps cliche but true. And there is that favorite tree in a quiet spot that always has one more seat beneath it, a glorious respite from the punishment of the sun. It is a place to converse about the day's happenings and to share a glass of ataaya. It is a place one could write an ode to a tree.