In the summer I am a shelter. Lightning splits the sky, air around me shuddering in response. Thunder replies, its threatening boom bellowing a warning to any still exposed to the elements. “Flee, find shelter, before the worst of it comes,” it seems to rumble.
But there is no shelter for me. I am the shelter.
I am the shelter many seek. I offer it freely. Not a complaint uttered when squirrels dig their claws into my bark, scaling my height in a flurry of fur and scrabbles. Not a complaint when creeping things come, slowly slinking their way around my boughs. I have even shielded a human or two from a storm. I do not see them very often but when I do they seem alright.
As the winds howl and the skies open up, precious, nourishing water begins to fall. The life source cooling my branches, coating me lavishly. I bathe in it. Storms are my deliverance. The spongy soil surrounding me soaks up the blessed water where it will seep down to my roots, where the tender hairs will accept it gladly.
Amongst the nudging and pushing of the wind, I feel a tickle on one of my branches. Not that of water or of my leaves brushing against one another, but something small, like needle sticks. Clutching on to me and hopping deeper under my leaves.
A bird.
Birds are my favorite visitors. Though they never say much to me, their melodious chirps and sounds fill my branches with sweet music. I wish I could make the sounds they do, but alas, I am a tree. Silent and firm.
But I am a shelter and I do my job well. My leaves and branches protect this bird from the ferocity of the storm. It is okay, I can handle it. Though the whipped winds beat against my bark, taunting me, urging me to topple, I never will. I stand resolute until the end.
When at last the storm retreats, I remember the little bird. Shaking off her feathers, she cocks her head at me and chortles a question. A statement.
The wind rustles my branches in reply. She turns east and flies.
…
Autumn is when I show off. My appendages sport the most beautiful colors found in nature. From sunset-burnt oranges, to vibrant yellows and deep crimsons, I stand a little taller. I may be biased, but my leaves are prettier than any of the other trees around.
…
Winter is painful. It strips and hollows me and cracks my wood. The snow tears down branches with its weight. I gasp for air, I gasp for water and wait agonizing days for the snow to melt into the ground.
Winter is brutal.
…
Spring finds me worn.
My leaves, glossy and green begin to bud but the bitter cold has left my spirit wary. I feel the weight of the phantom branches, fallen beneath the weight of the snow. I feel the fissures, I feel I am bending slightly in form.
The sun warms my naked branches, what is left of them.
Perhaps I am rotting from the inside and my time is up. Perhaps a shelter no more.
A light shower begins and my leaves shimmy in the wind. Amongst the nudging and pushing of the wind, I feel a tickle on one of my branches. Not that of water or of my leaves brushing against one another, but something small, like needle sticks. Clutching on to me and hopping deeper under my leaves.
It is the little bird from the summer storm. She has found me again for shelter.
I am a tree and I do my job well.
This time when the rains subside, she does not fly away. She is joined by another bird, her male. He begins to bring her twigs and gifts of nature. She nestles snugly in the corner of my top branch. Her little body warms me more than the sun.
It is on a bright sunny morning I hear the chirps. Fluffy feathers float around my boughs. She has four chicks. Three tawny and soft. The fourth one hatches late. He wears a black striped mask with a grey-tipped beak.
I miss them when they leave.
…
In the summer I am a shelter. Lightning splits the sky, air around me shuddering in response. Thunder replies, its threatening boom bellowing a warning to any still exposed to the elements. “Flee, find shelter, before the worst of it comes,” it seems to bellow.
But there is no shelter for me. I am the shelter.
And this time when I feel a tickle on my branch I know it is a bird. I see a speckled sparrow shivering water from his wings. He wears a black striped mask with a grey-tipped beak.
We brave the tempest together.
When at last the storm retreats, I remember the little bird. He cocks his head at me and chortles a question. A statement.
The wind rustles my branches in reply. Then he turns east and flies.