On Sierra Vista Ridge stands an oak with quite pride, Rooted like a sentinel where the hawks and thermals glide. No stairs, no rails, no human fuss, just open sky and breeze, A monarch of the hillside with a doctorate in ease. It watches cyclists puff their way up switchbacks far below, Then shrugs its branches smugly like, "Relax, enjoy the show." It's weathered droughts and lightning bolts with deadpan comic grace, A grizzled ridge-top comedian with bark upon its face. So when you pass that stubborn oak, give it a knowing nod; A lone, unbothered masterpiece carved by sunlight, wind, and sod.
