by Vasilii Polenov, 1879
Food and shade. Oil and good for the eyes.
The trunk slinks into the dirt, winding its way to the unseen drops. The same bend, the same leaves, the same bark, and branches, knots, and even olives have been here for generations. The workers and the wanderers have the same conversations. (And in a place like Israel, where the weather is always the same, you westerners can imagine how dull that gets after three thousand years.)