From little acorns...

There’s quite a few bur oak acorns on the ground under the tree at the end of our drive. So far there’s not much sign that anyone’s been feeding on them. Perhaps we are experiencing something like this sequence described by Arbor Masters: “Bur oak acorns take two years to mature. The first year, the tree produces small, green acorns that fall to the ground and are not eaten by animals. The second year, the tree produces larger, brown acorns that are eaten by animals.” If that’s what’s going on, we won’t know until next year’s acorn fall. However, most other reports on bur oak acorns are similar to this one: “The acorns mature in one season, ripening in early- to mid-autumn.” from the Columbus Dispatch. [I’ve doubts about the two years to mature.]

bur oak acorn

Photo by J. Harrington

In our neighborhood, we have bears, deer, wild turkeys, and squirrels that I would expect to be feeding, if not feasting, on the acorns. Perhaps the fact that they’re right next to a paved road is deterring (detouring?) the critters from chowing down. Most of the nuts are the pale green color you see above, not the brown color I associate with ripe acorns. The “definitive” Trees and Shrubs of Minnesota, by Welby R. Smith, notes bur oak acorns “maturing early August to early mid-September of the 1st year; ...”

In addition to pondering acorns, I’ve also spent a little time today trying to sort out if there’s an environmentally beneficial solution to all the dead branches our oaks drop every year. Composting would take space and time, like years, to let the branches beak down. Chipping would take a chipper and storage space for the chips, plus some of the dead branches are the size of small trees. Stacking branches along the woods line presents the problem of providing wildfire fuel. This looks like another case of choosing the least worst alternative. Sigh!!

Black Oaks

by Mary Oliver

Okay, not one can write a symphony, or a dictionary,

or even a letter to an old friend, full of remembrance
and comfort. 

Not one can manage a single sound though the blue jays
carp and whistle all day in the branches, without
the push of the wind. 

But to tell the truth after a while I'm pale with longing
for their thick bodies ruckled with lichen

and you can't keep me from the woods, from the tonnage

of their shoulders, and their shining green hair.

Today is a day like any other: twenty-four hours, a
little sunshine, a little rain. 

Listen, says ambition, nervously shifting her weight from
one boot to another -- why don't you get going?

For there I am, in the mossy shadows, under the trees.

And to tell the truth I don't want to let go of the wrists
of idleness, I don't want to sell my life for money,

I don't even want to come in out of the rain.

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