What Does the Ash Tree Say?

Well folks, yesterday was grim. Grimmer even than I expected. I take comfort in my canine companion, however, who seemed unaware of the events of the day. She is a sundog, so despite the chill, she was full of energy—when she wasn’t snoozing in the rays. 

Looking for other opinions, I consulted our ash tree, but they were silent. (Pronoun intuited.) That is not surprising; if we’ve learned anything from Tolkien, it’s that trees are insensitive to human affairs, and very slow to speak. 

A mugging of crows gathered on the roof. (The congregation was two shy of a full murder.) They had been pecking the metal cover on the bathroom’s fan vent, which brought me into the back yard to investigate. I listened to them as they chatted, and although my crow is a bit rusty, they seemed to be joking about messing with the humans. They glanced at me and smirked. 

I studied the squirrels and shrubbery for signs of disturbance, but could detect no change. As far as I can tell, all the four-leggeds and two-wingers and deep-rooteds were unaware of, or unalarmed by, the winds of change in Washington. 

You may argue that a squirrel or fern is hardly the best authority to consult regarding legally-dubious executive orders. Point taken. I have no idea where that fern did her undergraduate work. And yet, I couldn’t help finding solace in their stolid, untroubled ways. Or perhaps it was just too early to rouse them to action. I will observe them again today and report back.