You, old man, with your hidden rings, I can guess your age. I measure your circumference in inches, divide it by pi to get your diameter, and multiply that by a growth factor of four. I calculate two hundred years stationed along the river, rooted, moving out and up. Your white bones clacking against blue sky. In your youth, the last of the Delaware, Wyandot, and Shawnee walked along the banks, driven west to the confined prairies of Oklahoma. Settlers from the East had arrived, roosting in the hollowed trunks of your older, wider kin, while they built sturdier shelters. You have seen floods and droughts. You arched your spine toward the river when they laid railroad tracks in the 1850s. Did you hear the college men singing up on the campus? Did they come down from the hill and climb your limbs? How many generations of raccoons found warmth inside you? The fog settles on your leaves after the thunderstorm and lifts again by morning. The train left tracks behind 65 years ago, today covered in asphalt for bicyclists and joggers. They are much quieter, though the road that runs parallel to the river carries cars and trucks at 50 miles per hour. The exhaust drifts your way but still you stand, protected on all sides by legal agreements that shield your roots from bulldozers. But what I want to know is who fell in love at your mossy feet, played hide and seek around your widening waist, carved a heart into your shedding bark?