I am a home to many creatures, much smaller than me. Ants crawl through dust and along my old roots, lichen hangs from my boughs like fringe on a gypsy, bobcats and deer like to rub their claws and antlers against my trunk, and a family of bluebirds always comes back to their old nest, in the crook of my most steady limb. These little birds are, without a doubt, my favorite tenants. I still remember the first hatch; I was a young tree then, new and confused by the world around me, using me. Storms were scary, blowing my tender leaves away in the springtime, and droughts were scarier, as I felt my blossoms shrivel up and die. Not only that, but in this forest the older trees were much bigger than me–their roots stretched and tried to choke mine, but I was stronger. I made it. And now I have a family of bluebirds who always return to nest on me.
***
It’s midsummer now; the bluebirds have a big family of chirping young ones. It’s this time that I begin to worry: what if, when I start to lose my leaves, they leave and don’t come back? What if my strong boughs are no longer enough, and their nest decays to twigs, then falls away completely? So I try to hold onto my leaves. For as long as I can. The bluebirds have no idea their home is trying so desperately to hold them to it; they lay their eggs, forage for food, the chicks grow into adults and fly away, making nests in other trees. If only they could understand how I love them, then maybe they would brave the perils of winter and warm me during the cold months. Some days I desperately wish I were a fir tree. Those hardy, bushy trees that could keep any creature warm in their foliage. They get to know what happens all winter, after the other trees lose their leaves and fall into a hibernation. What creatures use them for a home? Maybe foxes and little rabbits crouch at their trunks, where the snow doesn’t fall so deep. Or, perhaps, their only friends are sun and snow.
***
The bluebird chicks have all flown away now. I can feel a chill in the earth; it makes me want to pull my roots back in and curl them round and round. Despite my will, some of my leaves have turned yellow and I feel no more energy coming from them. Already, I feel more sluggish. Breezes come like a tsunami, wiping out a village of my foliage, and I know the chirps of the bluebirds mean they’re getting ready to leave. I feel so sorry for them, for my steady bough now shakes and quivers.
***
They have left. The cold is here. My last leaf hangs on . . .
. . . and it is gone. Goodnight.
Word Technician 