Yesterday I woke up to the beep beep beep of some large machine backing up close to my house. The school or the city must’ve sent some men and trucks to finish cleaning up fallen tree debris – this time the giant old willow that had been weakened by strangling English ivy. I went out in my nightgown, sleep still in my eyes – ostensibly to ask them to take only what had fallen because the remainder provided homes for many small critter friends. Not one of them looked my way, either out of embarrassment for my dishevelment or because some old lady was simply not on their radar as they struggled with two or three chainsaws that wouldn’t start. I think both the tangle of vines and thickness of that old willow trunk were probably too much for their measly tools, and a part of me was glad.
But they persisted. I went outside a second time once they’d cleared away the loose plant matter, again with the intention of suggesting they leave the remaining stump and ivy alone so as not to disturb whoever lived there, and again not one of them looked in my direction. I began to feel weak – an old sensation of being powerless to move groups of burly men, with their loud equipment and their ignorance. That the natural world had no meaning in their lives grew even more evident when one of them plowed the bulldozer point blank into the vine-choked trunk and proceeded to remove the huge mass of branches and leaves. I saw a small rodent-like creature dart out of the mess and race to the house next door. The birds had fled long before, I’m sure, once they heard the loud noises. (Note: I think I finally solved the mystery of that small rodent. Have seen it before and thought it was a baby squirrel, but after searching through the Internet I believe this neighbor is a ground squirrel – smaller than a tree squirrel, with a shorter, fluff-less tail.) “Good luck!” I said, hoping no others were still inside being pushed into a dump truck by the yellow monster.
Resigned to helplessness at that point, I stopped observing the men’s activities. Today I’m remembering how The Misfits ends, with Marilyn Monroe screaming at three men wrangling a few scrawny mustangs that they’re all dead inside.
Of course, just as the willow succumbed to the ivy, the ivy and all the little ones nesting there will have to accept the change and search for new homes. I tell myself they’re going to be okay, because otherwise I’ll sink into sorrow. Took me a long time, even so, to shake off such heavy emotions.
littlebirdhealing 