Hundred-mile-an-hour wind gusts are fairly common in Boulder, Colorado, at least since I moved here. The gusts last night started around dark and walloped our cul-de-sac without mercy until noon today.
I slept approximately not at all.
The house shook,
the windows howled,
the fireplace flue played
the pan flute all night long.
This morning around five thirty I heard a little tap, a dainty scrape outside.
When I walked out my door at eight thirty, I saw this--
When I walked out my door at eight thirty, I saw this--
being held up by this--
engulfing both cars like this--
as nearly 8,000 pounds of pine tree blocked our driveway.
The arborist from Blue River Tree Care was already on the scene. He called in the largest crane that I have ever seen (and I’ve installed landscapes for 14 years)
which dropped a daredevil
down into the crown of the tree
who chopped two branches out
with a hand saw, attached the cables
and while we gaped from the upstairs landing window
that two-story pine tree
danced like a baby ballerina up over our heads
and touched down in point, where the crew promptly undressed her.
This miracle surpassed the miraculous activity indoors: my final day polishing
the last draft of my novel Tributary, 19.6 years in the making. Sharing the very last hours on this my magnum opus with the flight of the bumblebee pine tree--
the last draft of my novel Tributary, 19.6 years in the making. Sharing the very last hours on this my magnum opus with the flight of the bumblebee pine tree--
I may have to take up the pan flute.
And play it hiking in the pines.
(For those of you smitten with pan flute fever . . .
check out this crazy website!)
