Into the Wild

After each storm, the trees throw down their challenge: branches lying carelessly along the ground or cast down with force and digging into the earth for several inches, defying me to pull them out.

Limbs lying whole or broken warn me: "This is our kingdom. Enter at your peril." I know they watch us from the backyard. In bed at night, I hear their murmuring; their contempt. "We were here before you. We will be here after you. We have seen great things and small things of man. They are all the same; simply things of men."

Sometimes, I hear tapping and awake. I run outside and realize they have drizzled acorns or perhaps a low-lying branch has teased against the roof. I think I hear snickering from the far end of the year. But when I look--all is quiet.

In the day, I venture beyond the patio and they glower. This is their kingdom. They torment me. They litter the smooth grass of summer with walnuts to obstruct the path of the lawnmower. They leave large dead limbs as traps overhead for the unwary, cover my roof hoping to test my fear of heights; fling the smallest twigs to the ground to make the work harder.

It was not always like this, I hear them sigh. Once they ruled, from the Atlantic Ocean to the Mississippi and beyond. None dared contest them. They were friend to the squirrel, the martin and the jay. Now, they are few.

And with each intrusion into their realm, I know they are watching. Waiting. Plotting. They will be back. They will be great again.