In my backyard are nine trees, all of which arrived as saplings in the cargo hold of a 1973 Volkswagen Kombi. The largest, an emerald queen maple, dominates like the Hometree of Pandora. From where I sit, I can’t see into its leafy upper branches, where for all I know Na’vi clans reside in blissful harmony.
Down below, songbirds flit between plum tree branches, from which dangle three (count’em) bird feeders. A fourth feeder hangs from a lower limb of a mature white birch whose upper limbs overhang a neighboring yard, offering shade to neighbor kids whose backyard features zero trees—same as the ones I remember from my boyhood. In those days, a proper backyard resembled a livestock paddock. Mostly just lawn, with a clothesline here and a swing set there. No trees, no bird feeders, and no birds.
My newest plantings are aspens, which I’m told prefer higher elevations, although mine appear to be doing quite well—in particular, the one I planted behind the garage because I couldn’t think of any other place to put it. To my surprise, it not only survived but thrives! Today it is easily the tallest tree in the yard, thanks to a columnar growth pattern unlike that of any aspen I’ve ever seen before. Where is it going? I wonder. And, When will it stop? No birds nest in its branches, nor can a bird even hang on during a fifty-knot wind such as the one we experienced last evening.
I was half hoping the storm would help disperse the crowd of hooligans who were setting cars ablaze and shouting epithets at police officers downtown—in front of the public library no less! I’m guessing the mob’s intention was to demonstrate in front of the police station; however—mob mentality being what it is—they got the wrong address.
This morning things have quieted down, thanks in part to a citywide curfew. The curfew, combined with the ongoing coronavirus lockdown, means I won’t be going anywhere today—except from my bed to the end of the driveway to retrieve the newspaper, thence to the kitchen to pour myself a cup off coffee, thence to my hammock strung beneath the two plum trees.
My intention was to read about last night’s riot, but then I decided not to. What I’m going to do instead is watch birds, which seem to be enjoying a heyday of sorts. With fewer cars on the road and fewer humans milling about, the birds are gradually taking over—not like the Hitchcock birds of Bodega Bay, but in a nice way. Although my neighbor Cosmo reports seeing a vulture in his yard, I prefer to think of birds as good omens. Recently, for the first time in years, I spotted western tanagers in my yard! These colorful migrants tend not to stay in any one spot for long; however, I was fortunate to get within shooting distance as a male of the species enjoyed a sitzbath atop the fountain which burbles merrily in deep shade beneath the widespread canopy of my majestic emerald queen maple.
