Where would I live if I were a bird; if I could fly and make my house high up in furtive places? What tree would I chose among the many? And what would I choose?—a knot-hole in a branch? Or would I choose a cozy burrow in the ground like some of the species of birds do? Or a chamber in a tree, or maybe a rotting pile of vegetation and earth, or a mud dome with an entrance tunnel. What would I chose for a home if you were a bird?
There is a bushy island of some type of tall gnarled and twisted trees with curly branches in my neighbor’s backyard, which top the fence and I can see from all the corners of my garden. It reminds me of the garden at the Burrow in Harry Potter and the Chamber of Secrets. The trunks of these trees, or tall bushes, are knotted and twisted as I have never seen and there’s a kind of hush to it; a mystery that captivates the soul. Birds seem to love this tree perhaps much more than I do. And on any given day, that’s where I would chose to live; if I were a bird.