Saturday, September 07, 2013

I know that I shall never see...

...a hawk on that persimmon tree.

Recently, the barking of my two big dogs alerted me to a tree-removal crew in my next-door neighbor's backyard. Off and on throughout the morning, I watched them work to take down a large oak tree. It was a fascinating, carefully choreographed process: one man in the bucket of a crane, several others on the ground, working with chainsaws and ropes to lower sawed-off branches and huge segments of tree trunk safely to the ground.

If you click this image to enlarge it, you'll see that
the white spot just above the center of the photo
is a man working from the bucket of a crane. 

That tree grew on the far side of my neighbor's house, so, even though its higher branches were visible to me, I never paid particular attention to the tree itself. The same cannot be said for the tall, spindly persimmon tree that grew farther back in the same backyard. The persimmon tree was a focal point of my daily nature watch.

The persimmon tree in question is the tall tree on the left side of this photo.

I must have well over a hundred pictures of that persimmon tree. In winter and summer both it provided photographic opportunities: cloud formations behind it and birds flying onto and away from its branches. Birds of prey seemed to consider the top of that tree an ideal spot for waiting and watching, for scoping out meals in nearby yards, and I delighted in watching and photographing those magnificent birds.

I felt nothing more than curiosity when the men took down the oak tree that day. It took them several hours to do it, and, when they were finished with the oak tree, I assumed their work was done. You can imagine my surprise, then, when I looked out only minutes later and saw the persimmon tree lying on the ground.

The pile of green at the center of this photo is the felled persimmon tree.

Today there's hardly any evidence that the tree ever existed.

I'm embarrassed to admit it, but I cried when I saw that the persimmon tree had been cut down. Not that it was ever any of my business, but my neighbor later mentioned why she'd had the two trees removed, and her reason is a good, sound one. I didn't tell her what I've just told you--that I felt sad (still do) about the loss of the persimmon tree. There's no reason to make her feel uneasy about doing something she had every right to do, and besides, I feel a little silly about discovering I'd become emotionally attached to a tree.

I will miss it, though. Just probably not as much as this guy:

Mississippi Kite on uppermost branch of persimmon tree.


Since I've only written one blog entry between now and last Saturday, it seems too soon to post another Saturday Song Selection. Eh...who cares? There's one song that's perfect for today's topic, so I'm going to post it anyway. It's a lovely version of a children's song, and the photos in the video are gorgeous.

The song is "Tree Song" by Evie Tornquist Karlsson.
Thanks to Barry Desaine for posting the video on YouTube.
Click here to read the lyrics.


  1. Oh, I have cried over many a tree. When we bought this house 17 years ago there were three large maple trees in the front and two plus a huge cottonwood which migrating flocks loved. I wept over and wrote a poem of praise and thanks on the stump of each one. They gave us wonderful shade, anchor places for the hammocks, condominiums for squirrels and birds and fabulous changing beauty... Only one gigantic maple remains. I wonder which one of us will die first.

    1. Judith, welcome, and thanks for letting me know I'm not alone in my tree-hugging tendencies.


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