So it pained me to take down the old sugar maple, my arboreal cathedral, one rafter at a time, her demise not from flames but an underground blaze of fungus.
The tree was old when we moved to the farm 36 years ago, about the age of this farmhouse we figured, 160 years.
And she’s not the only tree stressed on the farm.
We watched the old maple die slowly.
I saw no Baltimore oriole nest high in her branches as I had the year before, nor did I find on the ground the glossy white and elliptical egg of a mourning dove.
Persons:
rafter, ”, She’s, Anthills
Organizations:
oriole