The Finch Formerly Known As Gold

5 December 2002

God's own prune

The Big Tree in the courtyard is suddenly about one-third less Big; the ice storm frosted up the limbs, a hard freeze afterwards made sure the ice wasn't going to melt, and gravity took care of the rest.

I don't think it's doomed — while there's a nasty break in the trunk, it's not the worst this tree has ever suffered — but if you're in the habit, as I am, of thinking that trees are something that endure no matter what, the sight of massive branches not exactly writhing on the ground is a shock to the system.

Besides, I know better than "no matter what"; another tree in the same courtyard, twenty-five feet away or so, fell victim to bagworms a few years ago and did not recover. Only a fragment of stump and an odd grass pattern remain to attest to its existence.

Evidently reminders of mortality have more effect on me now than they did when I was young and semi-indestructible.

Posted at 7:29 AM to Soonerland