The quietest atheist is actually an oak tree. It has grown for nearly 170 years, although the last 40 have been the toughest. Passed over by the axe of colonizers looking for lumber, it watched rejection turn into salvation. Its leaves fell in a sigh of relief.
That is, until wood no longer became the thing of highest value, and factories of steel and cement grew up around it, and a city called Youngstown came into blossom. Its leaves no longer celebrated in the summers, but counted down the days until they could drop. Its bark, which never minded the cold blades of lovers, now seared and recoiled at the very thought of wind.
And now the city has lost its color, dried, and fallen. The tree remains, a prominent destination for dog walkers and sometimes for college students. The latter come out in the late spring to read, and the quietest atheist listens to their impassioned talk. It enjoys the philosophy students the most. They argue Sartre and Wittgenstein, sometimes eating fruit or cheese, and almost never litter.
