The Hell Gate Bridge sways with the cool wisp of the night sky, split into light and darkness by the splintering oak tree. The bright city lights fight off the dark temptation of the daunting bridge. The brave oak tree was once a symbol of guidance, and it stands alone rooted in the concrete burial ground of Astoria Park’s alliance of oaks and maples. I can see the wet condensation on the rough bark of the old oak, and I know they are his tears. As I gaze up towards him I look at where he is pointing. The decades that he has endured have left him confused now; unsure which direction is the right one. Could it be to the right, where the moon illuminates the Hell Gate Bridge? Or is it to the left where the culprits of arbor-cide dwell? I look out towards the reflection of the city, my home, and my safe haven, in the East River. The old aching oak has none.
