Bird and Burl

The tree had stopped blooming,

its perfume long faded

spring rain was just… grey.

The water bird stood nearby

at the edge of the pond

and asked if the tree was sad.

“If I had sackcloth, I would wear it,”

and shivering slightly,

it shrugged.

The bird hopped to the tree

brushing its wings

along a magnificent burl.

After awhile, the tree spoke

long, sonorous tones

fitting for old bark.

“I miss the morning chatter

of birds in my branches,”

it sighed.

“The way the afternoon sun

smiled on my flowers, the feel

of late-day breezes around my trunk.”

The bird looked at the branches,

mostly bare but not quite

and asked if it could help somehow.

“You already have,” said the tree

as it bent slightly toward the bird,

feeling wings wrapping around its trunk.