The Offline Mind

It doesn’t grow berries. At first I thought the squirrels were getting to them before I could spot them, but then I noticed the squirrels aren’t there, except in transit. There’s a younger, healthier mulberry toward the back of the property and they make a circus of that one, tally-ho from limb to limb, all day long, bright pink berries in their mouths. That tree doesn’t have spots on her leaves.

What’s eating you, tree? You bend low and peer into my kitchen window, even now, gazing at me like a slow-necked dinosaur. They built a fence around you to section the properties (you were here first) and the bed about your roots had become dust over time. I’ve brought you soil and shit and good things to eat. I envisioned the worms coming in the night to tend to you, like the wise men. But come morning anyone can see you’re still writing your last letter on the breeze.

Something is bothering my mulberry tree. She misses the birdhouse the racoons tore down and I haven’t had time to repair. She misses the bluejays and their terrible caw I haven’t had the heart to call to. She misses the years, their snows, their leaves. Me too.