Wishtree(2)

I wish I knew what to wish for.

So many wishes. Grand and goofy, selfish and sweet.

It’s an honor, all the hopes bestowed upon my tired old limbs.

Although by the end of May Day, I look like someone dumped a huge basket of trash on top of me.





4


As you’ve probably noticed, I’m more talkative than most trees. This is new for me. I’m still getting the hang of it.

Nonetheless, I’ve always known how to keep a secret. You have to be discreet when you’re a wishtree.

People tell trees all kinds of things. They know we’ll listen.

It’s not like we have a choice.

Besides, the more you listen, the more you learn.

Bongo says I’m a busybody, and I suppose she has a point. She’s my best pal, a crow I’ve known since she was nothing but a pecking beak in a speckled egg.



We disagree sometimes, but that is the way of all friends, no matter their species. I’ve seen many surprising friendships during my life: a pony and a toad, a red-tailed hawk and a white-footed mouse, a lilac bush and a monarch butterfly. All of them had disagreements from time to time.

I think Bongo is too pessimistic for such a young bird.

Bongo thinks I’m too optimistic for such an old tree.

It’s true. I am an optimist. I prefer to take the long view on life. Old as I am, I’ve seen both good and bad. But I’ve seen far more good than bad.

So Bongo and I agree to disagree. And that’s fine. We’re very different, after all.

Bongo, for example, thinks the way we trees name ourselves is ridiculous. As is the custom with crows, Bongo chose her name after her first flight. It may not be her only name, however. Crows change names on a whim. Bongo’s cousin, Gizmo, has had seventeen names.

Sometimes crows adopt human names; I’ve seen more Joe Crows than I’ve seen sunny days. Sometimes they name themselves after things that catch their fancy: Poptop, Jujube, DeadRat. They’ll name themselves after aerobatic maneuvers: DeathSpiral or BarrelRoll. Or after colors: Aubergine or BeetleBlack.

Many crows opt for sounds they’re fond of making. (Crows are excellent mimics.) I’ve met crows named WindChime, EighteenWheeler, and GrouchyCabDriver, not to mention a few others that are not appropriate for polite company.

Down the street lives an aspiring rock band composed of four middle schoolers. They practice in a garage. Their instruments include an accordion, a bass guitar, a tuba, and bongo drums.

The band has yet to perform outside of the garage, but Bongo loves to sit on the roof and sway to their music.





5


Names aren’t the only way we differ from crows.

Some trees are male. Some trees are female. And some, like me, are both.

It’s confusing, as is so often the case with nature.

Call me she. Call me he. Anything will work.

Over the years, I’ve learned that botanists—those lucky souls who study the lives of plants all day—call some trees, such as hollies and willows, “dioecious,” which means they have separate male and female trees.

Lots of other trees, like me, are called “monoecious.” That’s just a fancy way of saying that on the same plant you’ll find separate male and female flowers.

It is also evidence that trees have far more interesting lives than you sometimes give us credit for.





6


One thing trees and crows have in common—in fact, one thing all the natural world has in common—is the rule that we’re not supposed to talk to people.

It’s for our own protection. At least that’s the theory.

I’ve often wondered if the endless silence is a good idea. There’ve been so many times I’ve wanted to speak up, to intervene, to help people. I’ve never said a word, though. That’s just the way the world has always worked.

Have there been slip-ups? Sure, mistakes have been made.

Last year I heard about a frog named Fly, who’d been napping in a mailbox. (All frogs are named after bugs they enjoy eating.) When the mailman opened the box, Fly leapt out with a frantic croak. The mailman fainted.

He woke up to Fly, who was apologizing profusely, squatting on his forehead.

Clearly, a breach of the Don’t Talk to People rule.

But as always seems to happen, the incident was soon forgotten. After all, the mailman was absolutely certain that frogs can’t talk. “Just hearing things,” he no doubt told himself.

Interestingly enough, he retired not long after the frog incident.

In any case, when you consider the number of trees and frogs and otters and wrens and dragonflies and armadillos and everybody else in the natural world, you’d think people would have caught on to our little secret by now.

What can I say? Nature is tricky. And people are … well, sorry, but most of you aren’t that observant.

Perhaps you’re wondering, if you’re a curious or doubting sort, just exactly how trees communicate. You may find yourself inspecting a nearby ponderosa pine, perhaps, or an aspen or sweet gum, puzzling out the magic.

People speak with the help of lungs, throats, voice boxes, tongues, and lips, thanks to an intricate symphony of sound and breath and movement.

But there are plenty of other ways to convey information. An eyebrow cocked, a giggle stifled, a tear brushed aside: These, too, are ways you express yourself.