A pile of cut branches has been on the lawn for at least a week, and I’ve been passing its collection of elm and oak and eucalyptus dutifully at least four or five times a day. This morning I noticed a bird perching on the drying branches, and everything in my mind about that pile was upended.
The bird was altogether uninterested in the temporary nature of the pile, and could not seem to care less that these were no longer trees. As far as the bird was concerned, if it had concerns or cares at all, the branch could just as easily have still been connected to the ground with roots instead of how gravity now inverted it into a briar patch. How the branches lie did nothing to extrude their quality of being from its form. But still, something felt off about the moment, revealing something, but I couldn’t quite say what seemed so profound about the brief scene.
If I were a bird, what in my world is like that branch, relied upon and misunderstood?