Tag Archives: fall

Unprovoked

A black bird, which looked like a crow, was gliding alone through the sky. Gliding? This caught my eye. I blocked the sun with my hand and watched it. It then suddenly tucked its wings in and rolled onto its back, its pointed beak leading the way as it began to dive down. Suddenly it unraveled its wings and effortlessly rolled back upright, catching its fall, and continuing to glide repeating this maneuver several time as it cascaded across the sky, flipping itself around with nothing but what can only be described of as joy. I’ve never seen a crow have fun before, or any animal for that matter entertain itself while so isolated and unprovoked.

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“Birds don’t go to school to learn how to fly.”

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Life’s a Birch

I was sitting in an office waiting. There was a painting of a forest of birch trees on the wall.

I noticed that birch trees always have so many knots on their trunk, like they’re falling apart and losing branches right and left. Either it’s bad construction, or they’re the laziest trees ever and simply get tired of holding their branches up. If I was a bird I would only build a nest in a birch tree if I was pinched for cash and needed a place to stay. Even the bark has given up and started turning itself into paper. It’s like birch trees don’t really know what they want to do with themselves. What’s the point of being a tree anyways? Yeah, I get it, you’re supposed to grow and get tall… but why? Is there an optimal height that all trees are trying to reach? Because the taller you get, the easier it seems to snap in half in the middle of a storm, or lose your roots in a flood. Why not reach a modest, respectable height, and stop? Are you really going to benefit from being taller if you just keep dropping branches along the way? They are what built you up in the first place, so how do you think that makes them feel? You sacrifice what you consider to be dead weight just so you can sprout a few more leaves closer to the sun.

What I liked about this painting is that it didn’t show the tops of the trees. It only showed the trunks and the forest floor. All the branches were gone, but everyone could see the knots, the scars left on the trees.

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Dunk Tank

As a kid I remember nailing the dunk tank with a fast ball, but it didn’t go. The guy sitting there just looked around  and avoided eye contact like he didn’t see anything — like he wouldn’t be paying attention. The lady said, “Oh, almost.”

“What do you mean? I pegged it.”

“You have two more tries.” She smiled until I looked away. I missed the next one bad, but I nailed my last attempt, however the guy still didn’t dunk. I threw my hands up. The lady couldn’t smile her way out of it this time. She let me walk up and press the stubborn red knob, kind of like a friendly execution. The man put on his goggles and braced himself with a dry swallow. I looked straight at him, the serendipity of success washed from my face by the bureaucracy of the carnival dunk tank, and watched him fall.

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