My neighbour's yard is overshadowed by a huge oak that hosts a noisy sunrise choir of birds of all feathers. Ana calls it 'my tree', because it's the first thing she sees from her window each morning.
In the winter it is etched against the sky in a bright snowy outline. In the autumn it spreads orange and yellow confetti across our yard, and the girls spend hours rolling in the leaves, tossing them, giggling and inevitably eating some too. Once per year, my neighbour tries to grievously injure himself by climbing upwards and trimming its vigorous growth - it is a process that involves rope, chainsaws, and a good deal of luck.
After Ana's tree, my next best leafy friend lives along the Chess Valley between the sleepy villages of Latimer and Chenies. My friend lives in a muddy field - a beautiful spot, though cows-infested and bearing this rather alarming sign: 'dogs seen worrying livestock will be shot'. My friend is an ancient oak stump - a huge one - with a little tiny oak sapling growing right out of the middle - a thing far too symbolic to retain any real tree street cred to be honest. The oak is fenced in by a tangle of barbed wire (presumably to keep out the worrisome dogs), but there is also a nice place to sit nearby. A good thing, because if you find the spot, you too will have to sit and think about it for a while.
|Dawn chorus choir bench.|
A deciduous post inspired by The Gallery at Sticky Fingers.