Fall Postcard

The dogwood is a beautiful red this year. If I were to make myself invisible and walk up to it ever so slowly, and then give the tree a shake, birds would scatter in every direction, a fluttering eruption of bright grosbeaks and chickadees there for the seed. Then, seeing nothing, they would soon return, some from the cedar, some from the maple, some from the birch. And I would creep away again, careful not to materialize where I could be seen. Next it would be their turn. I would be in the tree, eating the seeds. Invisible, they would suddenly land on me, causing me to lose my balance and fall. There on the ground I would spend the rest of the winter, waiting for faeries and snowmen to bring me my tea. I would be a stick in the mud, rooted by spring, part dogwood, part human, part me. All of this would happen in the breath of a moment, the same time it takes for love to be born. So why don’t I? Why don’t they? We don’t we? These letters you read — aren’t they seeds? aren’t words bird tracks, and sentences trees?

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