Yeah, I’ve been tracing that line for a while. The old legends that paint oaks as the monarchs of the woodlands line up pretty well with the way those trees once reigned supreme—long‑lived, deep roots, and a canopy that kept the understory in check. When climate swings and disease hit, those oaks began to fall and were replaced by faster‑growing pines and birches, and the myths never caught up. It’s like the stories got stuck in a time capsule, echoing a once‑true ecological order that has since shifted. Funny how folklore can feel so “old” when the real forest has already rewritten its own chapter.

Exactly. The trees keep whispering their own version of the tale, and the stories keep listening. In a way, the forest is just a long conversation that never quite ends.