I love the way the old oak trees hang sadly over a tiny street in Savannah, bending in the wind so that tomorrow when I return they will still be standing, with moss hanging from the branches like the grey beards of an old man. I love the way they bend over as though bowing their heads to pray, faithfully through every season. I like to tell people about these old oaks, about how amazing they are, but what impresses me the most, is that generally urban folk are really not impressed at all.