A glorious ash tree grows on the streetside in front of our house. We anticipate the mournful day when, perhaps, the ash borers discover it. For now, however, its lovely shape and dancing leaves bring us great pleasure.
The other day we noticed that the ground around the base of the ash tree was littered with small branches, all about the same size and length: finger width, twelve inches long. Most had no foliage attached. Alas! We thought. The borers are doing their business. But there were no other signs of distress in or on the tree. What could be happening?
Some days later, from my perch on the porch, I observed a busy-ness in the upper branches. Soon I spotted a squirrel scampering up the tree with, it appeared, a small branch in its grasp (in its teeth, I suppose). Then the squirrel dropped the branch, which tickled its way down, down through the tree.
Hmmm. I wondered. Perhaps this squirrel is a bad builder. Could that fall of branches at the base of the tree have been a squirrel architectural fail? Did a nest under construction simply fall apart?
Surrounded by three walnut trees, our home is pretty much squirrel nirvana. Nuts abound. We seem to have a resident family of five or six squirrels who defend their turf against hungry hordes. That ash tree would be a fine haven for a nest if the squirrel could get it together. I watch the branches quivering as the squirrel scampers about, chomping off branches and perhaps securing them in a suitable fork. Clearly a more skillful squirrel had better luck in the maple tree.
These observations and concerns help take the sting out of being denied access to our cottage retreat in Canada this summer because of covid. The garden has bloomed lushly (but not in this order) with cone flowers and black-eyed susans, hibiscus and salvia, rose o’ Sharon and roses—in fact, a succession of colorful blossoms from early spring until now, and on into fall as the asters and chrysanthemums flourish. We might even harvest a couple of tomatoes.
We got our vaccinations early on. We’ve ventured recently into social reconnections, such as in-person church and dinner at a restaurant. However, Missouri has soared to dubious recognition as a covid hotspot due to vaccination resistance. We are being careful, wearing masks in public and avoiding crowds. We feel grateful daily for the privileges we enjoy.
On the subject of trees, here’s a poem I wrote recently after watching—from our marvelous front porch—a gigantic tree being cut down, owing to its dangerous habit of dropping large branches on cars, roofs, and (potentially) passers-by. Sad to see it go though.
THE PREDATOR
All day Thursday we sat on the porch in the rain
watching the white oak be taken. A monster crane
stretched out its neck and extended a dangling claw
that clenched on each branch and severed it with a saw.
It was inhuman, though clearly a human below
angled its reach. Like a predator, clever and slow,
the animal ate at the tree until nothing, nothing was left
but a hole in the sky of its plaything strangely bereft.
The work of a lifetime fell, was felled to the ground.
When dusk darkened the drizzle that lasted all day,
having folded itself over its six fat wheels,
the great satisfied beast rumbled away.
I remember that ash tree in its beautiful fall colors, election week, 2020.
Squirrels should be praised only for their dedication, although only when it’s not dedication to something in the face of reason. Which means hardly ever.