The shepherd sat in the upland open pastures tending his sheep. His face weathered an acorn brown, wrinkled and lined from the cycle of the seasons. His squinting eyes, wrinkled against the Sun, he surveyed the great sweep of the far horizons of the upland valleys ... then slowly rising before his eyes ... the vision of times past blossomed within his heart. And before him ... and into the horizon haze of Mothers breath ... grew great forests of the sacred oak.

As the autumn drew ever closer to its climax, and with his dog, he steadily worked his flock down the slopes to more sheltered climes, to escape the worst of the savage bitter winter. The how or why he did not know, but as he scuffed the leaves of autumn, he scooped the little acorns, until the pouch upon his waist would hold no more. Expending a little of his hard won money, he had the Blacksmith add an iron spike as a tip to his staff.

The following spring, whilst moving his sheep to higher ground. The inner imperative so strong ... as he listened for the faint pure sound from deep within his heart ... Here, now! and do not forget the blessing!  ... Iron tipped staff pierced the earth, and each time a little acorn was laid within the cradle womb of Mother Earth. He tucked the acorn in, and from the water skin carried on his back a few drops of the precious liquid as a blessing ... and his heart sang its hymn to the great blue ... the source of the unknown blessings.

Today Majestic Oak Forests ... follow the paths that he once trod ... So it is true that Great Oaks from little Acorns grow ... And mighty deeds are accomplished from the tiniest movement of the heart.