There is a large tree that stands in the yard below me. You wouldn't call it beautiful. It's one that you might say has "character" with knots, old broken branches, and limbs all akimbo. There's a knothole at the base of one branch that is home to a nesting pair of birds. A swing hangs from long ropes, its seat made from a split log.
A young man wearing a broad-rimmed straw hat and a woman, along with their aging golden retriever, have spent the better part of the afternoon on this and the adjacent properties. He's been mowing and trimming; she's been walking the yards and down by the water with their dog, enjoying the unseasonably warm sunshine.
Late in the afternoon, the yard was nearly done. Not long ago the woman, in her long flowered blue dress, returned from the beach with the old retriever following behind. She sat on the swing, and after a few leg pumps, set it in pendular motion. About that time, the trimmer ran out of gas, and the young man used that as reason enough to take a short break. He saw that the old dog was close to the path of the swing, so gently led her aside and--with a few light pats--settled her in the grass. He gave his wife three strong pushes on the swing, enough to make her laugh, and then stood to the side looking up along the lengths of the rope. I heard him explaining to her that the swing was veering off course because he needed to change its position on the branch. She just pumped her legs, head tilted back.
Meanwhile, far above their heads, the nesting couple flew in and out of their knot-hole.
Eventually, he went back to his trimmer, added fuel, and started it up. She spent a few more minutes on the swing, and then wandered off to another part of the yard, dog slowly trailing behind.
At last, his work is now done. The young man has returned to the gnarled tree, leans the trimmer against the trunk, and spends a minute or so looking at the swing and branches. After a couple of tugs on the ropes, he gets on, and kicks off from the ground. While he leans forward and back in time with the swing, his dun-colored hat flutters off his head onto the grass behind. For awhile, I lose sight of the young man. Instead, I see the little boy he was - not all that long ago. No more than a minute later, he brings the swing to a stop. He finds his hat, puts it on his head, shoulders the trimmer, and walks off from sight.
From the perspective of that old tree, this evening with the young couple and the nesting birds has been the briefest of moments, and yet--to me--it speaks about years of new life, losses, changes, sameness, and hope.
