I find an oak sprout in the flower bed behind the housewith its green and delicate leaves on a limber stemand I feel contrary instincts—to save and to destroy.This sprout is from one of many acornsthat the jays and squirrels bury and forget. I’ve pulled up somewith enough of their roots to survive replantingand tucked them with their dangling acornsinto tiny pots in the kitchen on the window sill,where they grow until they die from unknown causes.Most, I pull up and toss on the compost pile.But I look at this one and consider leaving it alone.Its pure green leaves are a signal for hungry jaysand nervous squirrels. If it can escape their beady eyeswhy should I destroy it? I know my wife would saywe don’t need another tree, especially not so close to the walk.If it survives it will be harder for her flowers to get the light.But I think I can love this little thing even when, in 30 yearsand I am weak, it’s too big to dig up with a garden spade.
