There is a white oak beyond the south wall that I have never done much with. It was already there when I began building.
Over the years, I have moved a path because of it. Shifted a section of wall. Once, I changed where a bench would stand because one of its roots had reached farther than I expected.
I have never pruned the tree into a shape of my choosing. It has kept all of its branches.
It seems to know perfectly well what shape it should take.
This morning I stopped beneath it. Thirty-three years is a long time for anything to remain beside you while it continues to become entirely itself.
There are things I have built here that require constant attention. The white oak has never asked for much.
Room, mostly.
And perhaps the good sense to listen when it tells me where the path should go.
I think I will leave it exactly where it is.