Black Cherry Railway

Throughout the day, the tree in our side yard was more like a busy train station than the awkwardly-shaped sculpture of nature it actually was. The power lines were strung through the tangled branches like the veins of train tracks, and a bird feeder had been nailed firmly into the rough trunk, like a wooden platform piled with cargo awaiting a steam engine. From the trunk grew a stubbed prong that the visiting creatures liked to lounge on, along with many other convenient nooks and crannies that served as benches.

Passengers came and went from this tree with an alarming frequency, none ever staying longer than they had to. It was an incredible sight, really, to see the speed in which this station would clear at the slightest sound. If the train whistled a bit too loudly as it came in, the new arrivals would step out to find emptiness awaiting them, and if an unidentifiable noise rang out unexpectedly in the air, the flighty nuthatches and easily-startled cardinals would hurl themselves into the air, as if the devil was after them.

At calmer times, the gentlemen strutted about with their dapper hats cresting their crown, the tails of their coats snapping smartly out behind them. On their arms, their fair ladies would preen in their long, shining frocks of red, pale blue and grey, or iridescent black. Each kept their head tilted quirkily, as if watching to see if anyone would speak up as they filched parcels that didn't belong to them from the stacks of luggage on the platform. Every now and then, a cluster would get into an argument over who stole what first, and the volume and cacophony of their quarrel would cause those around them to take flight, in fear of being caught with their own stolen packages.

In contrast, the squirrels were a completely different sort. Young or old, they would sprint around with the muscled legs of athletes who were frantically trying to get themselves in shape the day before the Olympics. They would frolic about in their soft fur coats as if they had the wealth to buy a thousand more, but when no one else was watching, they hunched surreptitiously in their luxurious garments, eyes flicking to and fro in a wary paranoia as they pawed through the scattered luggage on the platform in hopes of finding a tasty treasure. If a particularly large fellow strutted his bulk a bit too closely, they broke out into angry, barking shouts at each other, twirling their fluffy tails like matadors taunting a bull. Almost inevitably, one would go after the other, and they'd chase each other round and round the station until one gave up and hid behind the benches.

By noon, these thrifty and skittish groups would disappear completely, and the station would close for the day. The platform would be a mess of picked-through boxes and bags, littered about with reckless abandon. Sometimes, when I looked out the window, I would catch a glimpse of a young squirrel who had obviously been roughed up. I had seen him a few times before during the morning, but he was always chased off with mocking laughter. His broken tail dragged behind him sadly as he scuffled through the refuse in hopes that his stronger and better-off brethren had dropped some pearls or coins for him to find. My heart would always ache when he sighed, his head hanging sadly towards the ground, but sometimes he found some discarded treat and I would smile as he leaned his back against the tree and nibbled on his little treasure.

After even he left, I would go out and sweep a hand across the feeder, brushing the empty shells to the ground. I'd open the lid and pour more birdseed and peanuts inside. Tomorrow, the trains and their passengers would come again, with their funny little ways and pretty little clothes, to steal all the parcels I left for them.