The Myth of Wile E

Phoenix Valley

Can trees play possum? How do you know when a plant is actually dead? It doesn't have a heart that stops. It doesn't stop breathing, exactly. Obviously you can tell when a plant is on its way to dying-when it's yellow and droopy and the leaves are falling off. But when is the moment you "call it," as they say on the TV medical shows?

See, the reason I ask is because I'd noticed that a couple of the chopped-down tree stumps near my house were showing signs that they may not be so dead after all. Two of the maples, one of the hickory trees, and even the apple tree, each had a teeny sprout like a little green hand reaching up out of the stump, as if to signal, "It's me! I'm still alive in here!"

And there were dozens of sprouts surrounding the roots of the pawpaw, too.

So, the thing is, I wasn't sure whether they should be considered brand new trees . . . or were they still the old trees, really? Which was the real tree: the part that had been cut down and taken away, or the roots that were left behind? Were they two distinct trees now, or were they still one and the same, separated by fate and distance? And was there some kind of spooky communication between the two, even miles apart?

It made me happy to think that maybe the tiny apple tree sprout could gain wisdom from its other parts that were now out in the world somewhere, becoming books or furniture or birdhouses.

And I now knew the trees would grow back. Not tomorrow, not next year-but in ten years, or twenty. There would be apple trees, and hickory trees, and pawpaws, and pines. There would be red and orange and yellow leaves, and green ones too. There would be tiger swallowtails again, and flying squirrels, and all manner of scavenger critters.

All kinds of beings, being.

And maybe someday, when the trees were strong again, there would be hammocks strung between the tree trunks, hammocks everywhere, like hundreds of people-cocoons spun between the trees. So many people done with consuming, who would come here to be at rest, and wait for their wings to come in.

Imagine what they all might become!

As I was pondering this, a very small bird landed on one of the tree stumps and cocked its head. Its back was greenish-yellow like a just-ripening banana, its face yellow as a dandelion, its belly bright as a buttercup. The top of its head was dark, as if it were wearing a gray knit cap, and its throat was dark, too, like it had on a fake beard. You'd think it was in disguise.

I froze.

The bird's head swiveled all around as he surveyed the stubble of the forest, and he chirped and buzzed, chirped and buzzed, demanding to know who was responsible for this mess.

I backed away, slowly, hands up, as if pleading my way out of a stick-up. I crept to my house, quietly, quietly, and came back with Dougie's camera.

But when I pressed the button, startling the poor bird (which flew away in a buttery streak), I became yet another in a long line of inept photographers unable to clearly capture Bigfoot, Nessie, a UFO, or a maybe-extinct bird. But in my case it was even worse than a dark, blurry photo. Because the camera was all out of film.

I stood there for a long time, staring at the empty space where the yellow bird had been, trying to collect the bird from memory (or, I guess, re-collect it). I concentrated hard as the image developed inside the darkroom of my mind.

And then, as I stood there, another bird-lighter yellow, with no funny beard, and only a pale gray veil on its head-flew to a different stump and looked at me.

As I held my breath and tried to become the world's second-greatest living statue, the bird cocked its head and buzz-chirped, buzz-chirped, buzz-chirped.

Very slowly, I stretched out my arm and pointed south.

"He went that way," I whispered.