After a short trek down a gravel road, through a patch of prickly plants that I do not recognize and past a “closed trail” sign I found a spot that not only looked comfortable enough to spend some time at but also was appealing to the eye. I am perched on a fallen tree that is at least three feet in diameter and would of stood about 60 feet high. The tree hangs off a bank and over the water. The highest point above the water is about twenty feet but because of my fear of falling in and having to walk to my car wet and soggy I am perched right where the tree and the bank lose their connection. Just close enough to the water so that I can still see in to it but far enough away so that I will remain nice and dry. This particular tree looks familiar to me, with its thin, flaky bark that almost resembles camouflage but the name escapes me. That is something I will have to research when I return home. Even though the tree has fallen it is still full of life. There are multiple birds’ nests that hang recklessly above the water, almost begging the wind to try and knock them off. The tree itself also seems to still be alive. With leaves on its branches parts of the roots must still be intact, feeding the still growing tree. I never considered a tree to still be living once fallen but this tree proves its possible.
As I sit and listen I start to take notice to just how loud the quiet actually is. I consider this place to be quiet because it is void of sounds from my everyday life like cars, the TV and even other people but when I actually stop and listen it is quite loud. By loud I mean active and alive. I hear the water pushing past rocks on its never-ending trip down stream. I hear birds and bugs communicating within their own little communities. Grasshoppers and crickets seem to be the dominant noise but ever so often a small bird will add something new to the conversation, breaking up the familiar clicking. As I was contemplating climbing higher into the tree I noticed two buzzards circling the sky over a nearby field. I wonder what had to die in order to feed the two ruthless birds in the sky; a groundhog maybe or a small deer hit by someone mowing down the grass? That is something I have grown familiar to. I come from a farming family that grows and sells hay and straw. Both of these things need to be cut down by a large mower type piece of machinery in order for us to further manipulate them and unfortunately there are always at least one causality. Baby deer are by far the most likely to be injured or killed. Their mothers leave them in the tall, protective grass in hopes that when she returns all will be well. Although this a very common experience for farmers, most (especially myself) never grow used to the usually gruesome scene and the guilty feeling.
The longer I continue to sit on this tree the more I notice how consistent and comfortable the breeze is. The breeze has allowed me to sit here for about an hour without even thinking of breaking a sweat. This is something I haven’t experienced in a few months. I find it extremely refreshing. Each time the wind picks up I glance at those nests just resting in the branches and each time the refuse to move. It amazes me how something so fragile can be so sturdy and strong.