In late spring, these shadows of leaves arrive, pirouetting across the pale green walls of my third story bedroom. I’ve left another stark winter behind. And the birds, loud enough at 5 AM to rouse me until the bells begin to chime.
I live in a tree house surrounded by leaves of a giant Norway maple. Deep down, the roots are so tenacious they steal water from younger, tender plants. Only the most skilled negotiators survive: the sturdiest hostas, a single oak-leaf hydrangea, and my three children.
Early this morning, I heard two birds fighting. Such racket and chatter and then they were gone. Do they look for other nests? Somewhere more luxurious than this? Or simply another place to call home.