Unaware of the nest above, I chopped down a small tree with a hatchet when I was seven or eight.
I saw the baby birds for just a moment before our dog ran over and ate them both.
I cried for a while after that. For days, I think.
Since then I’ve been planting trees. (I also don’t have a dog. Psychology, right?)
I like being near trees, seeing them, and listening to them. I like the habitat, the water and air they clean, and now that I know about it, the carbon they store above ground and below.
I’m 50 now. On the way out the door. But before I go, I’m planting more trees so there can be more nests.