I stretch, and the sun’s rays capture my attention, warming me with thoughts of this day and the thousands of others that I have spent here, near the bend of the river called Nueces. Buffalo grasses grow tall right up to the skirt of my base, but thin at the approach of the westerly shadow.
Today the sky is clear, except for a slight scattering of small puffballs in the Gulf sky to the south. But off in the distant north a thin vale of clouds rests on the horizon. By tomorrow morning, it will be raining. Animal creatures as well as human creatures may take shelter under my massive branches.
For centuries, my roots have probed the depths of the rich Texas soil. No challenger has stepped forth in generations to challenge my taproot for moisture or nutrients. My domain has expanded with only my cousins the grasses and my brother the wind for company. Only when the Spaniards or local natives, the Karankawas, camp near or beneath my canopy do I have company of the human form.
Once the Karankawas had a village just a few miles from the river. They fished and hunted small animals for food. Their bodies were smeared with alligator grease to keep the pesky mosquitoes away. But then the metal-covered men came riding on strange, snorting beasts. They held sharpened objects with blades shining in the sun, which were accompanied by other long objects that smoked and made a noise when pointed. Many of these metal men pointed these smoking sticks at the Karankawas, who died and journeyed home toward the Great Master.