I walked into our pinewoods to look at felled trees—two years ago, a freak windstorm devastated this forest, leaving heaps of dead wood.
I'd hoped to see infant pines and spruces pushing up through the tangle.
I saw only dead trunks and limbs and branches.
I'd been felled myself, a week before—sudden pain, ambulance, emergency room, long wait while physicians figured out what caused the agony, then a midnight emergency operation and—at three a.m.—wheeled into a hospital room.
Now I stared at dead trees.
What happened to me could afflict anyone, anytime. You can't prevent it. It's that tangle of intestines writhing inside us. They can twist. Friends lost a dog to it. She died in two hours.
We're all Frankenstein's monster. We're stitched-together scraps. We lurch through life.
Staring at those fallen trees, that's what I thought.
Then, something happened, an odd little thing.
Suddenly—out of that dead wood—a song welled up, ineffably sweet.
No big deal. Just some bird telling other birds he owned this woodpile, keep out. At least, experts say that's what bird song is about. I don't even know what bird it was.
But it wasn't about the bird. It was about that stunning music, welling up from the dead wood.
I suppose it didn't mean anything. Just an invisible bird singing. Or maybe it means whatever I decide it means.
So I'll be thinking about that.