The Burr Oak, Quercus marcocarpa, called the Mossycup Oak by some, I regard as an elder brother among the oaks. Burr Oaks have been memorable in my enviroment for a long time—I used to pick up the large acorns (half enclosed by thick, fringed cups) at the feet of massive, deeply furrowed trunks, on picnics along the creek in Lincoln Park in Oklahoma City, when I was 5 or 6 years old. I still pick them up. In Tulsa, there are large, old Burr Oaks I visit on the manicured grounds of Woodward Park, and in the unkempt woods of Mohawk Park. I stick my fingers in the fissures of their bark, lean my head against the trunk, and usually, after a bit, I feel better. Most of the trees have dropped their leaves by now, even as local weather tilts with the climate shift, laying down thick drifts the walker can shovel through in great, crackling sweeps, taking ten giant steps Mother-may-I-yes you may.
