Sometimes crows adopt human names; I’ve seen more Joe Crows than I’ve seen sunny days. Sometimes they name themselves after things that catch their fancy: Poptop, Jujube, DeadRat. They’ll name themselves after aerobatic maneuvers: DeathSpiral or BarrelRoll. Or after colors: Aubergine or BeetleBlack.
Many crows opt for sounds they’re fond of making. (Crows are excellent mimics.) I’ve met crows named WindChime, EighteenWheeler, and GrouchyCabDriver, not to mention a few others that are not appropriate for polite company.
Down the street lives an aspiring rock band composed of four middle schoolers. They practice in a garage. Their instruments include an accordion, a bass guitar, a tuba, and bongo drums.
The band has yet to perform outside of the garage, but Bongo loves to sit on the roof and sway to their music.
5
Names aren’t the only way we differ from crows.
Some trees are male. Some trees are female. And some, like me, are both.
It’s confusing, as is so often the case with nature.
Call me she. Call me he. Anything will work.
Over the years, I’ve learned that botanists—those lucky souls who study the lives of plants all day—call some trees, such as hollies and willows, “dioecious,” which means they have separate male and female trees.
Lots of other trees, like me, are called “monoecious.” That’s just a fancy way of saying that on the same plant you’ll find separate male and female flowers.
It is also evidence that trees have far more interesting lives than you sometimes give us credit for.
6
One thing trees and crows have in common—in fact, one thing all the natural world has in common—is the rule that we’re not supposed to talk to people.
It’s for our own protection. At least that’s the theory.
I’ve often wondered if the endless silence is a good idea. There’ve been so many times I’ve wanted to speak up, to intervene, to help people. I’ve never said a word, though. That’s just the way the world has always worked.
Have there been slip-ups? Sure, mistakes have been made.
Last year I heard about a frog named Fly, who’d been napping in a mailbox. (All frogs are named after bugs they enjoy eating.) When the mailman opened the box, Fly leapt out with a frantic croak. The mailman fainted.
He woke up to Fly, who was apologizing profusely, squatting on his forehead.
Clearly, a breach of the Don’t Talk to People rule.
But as always seems to happen, the incident was soon forgotten. After all, the mailman was absolutely certain that frogs can’t talk. “Just hearing things,” he no doubt told himself.
Interestingly enough, he retired not long after the frog incident.
In any case, when you consider the number of trees and frogs and otters and wrens and dragonflies and armadillos and everybody else in the natural world, you’d think people would have caught on to our little secret by now.
What can I say? Nature is tricky. And people are … well, sorry, but most of you aren’t that observant.
Perhaps you’re wondering, if you’re a curious or doubting sort, just exactly how trees communicate. You may find yourself inspecting a nearby ponderosa pine, perhaps, or an aspen or sweet gum, puzzling out the magic.
People speak with the help of lungs, throats, voice boxes, tongues, and lips, thanks to an intricate symphony of sound and breath and movement.
But there are plenty of other ways to convey information. An eyebrow cocked, a giggle stifled, a tear brushed aside: These, too, are ways you express yourself.
For a tree, communication is just as complicated and miraculous as it is for humans. In a mysterious dance of sunlight and sugar, water and wind and soil, we build invisible bridges to connect with the world.
Frogs have their own ways of connecting. Same for dogs. Same for newts and spiders, elephants and eagles.
How exactly do we do it? That’s for us to know and you to figure out.
Nature also adores a good secret.
7
I’m not just a tree, by the way. I’m a home. A community.
Folks nest on my branches. Burrow between my roots. Lay eggs on my leaves.
And then there are my hollows. Tree hollows—holes in a trunk or branch—are not uncommon, especially in trees like me who’ve been around awhile.
Hollows can be small enough for tiny salt-and-pepper chickadees or a family of deer mice. Or they can be quite large, big enough for an open-minded bear.
Of course, I’m a city tree. We don’t get a lot of bears around here, unless they’re of the teddy variety. But I’ve hosted more than my share of raccoons, foxes, skunks, opossums, and mice. One year I was home to a lovely and exceedingly polite porcupine family.
I’ve even sheltered a person.
Long story. (I have lots of those, stored up the way a squirrel hoards acorns.)
Hollows happen for many reasons. Woodpeckers. Fallen branches. Lightning. Disease. Burrowing insects.
In my case, I have three hollows. Two medium-sized ones were made by woodpeckers. The largest one happened when I was quite young. I lost a large branch that was weakened by wet snow during a nor’easter. It was a big wound, slow to heal, and my spring leafing that year was paltry, my fall color pale (and, frankly, embarrassing).
But eventually the hole healed, widened with the help of insects, and now, about four feet off the ground, I have a deep oval hollow.
Hollows offer protection from the elements. A secure spot to sleep and to stash your belongings. They’re a safe place.
Hollows are proof that something bad can become something good with enough time and care and hope.
Being a home to others isn’t always easy. Sometimes I feel like an apartment complex with too many residents. Residents who don’t always get along.
Still, we make it work. There’s a lot of give-and-take in nature. Woodpeckers hammer at my trunk, but they also eat annoying pests. Grass cools the earth, but it also bickers with me over water.
Every spring brings new residents, old friends, and more chances for compromise. This spring in particular has seen quite the baby boom. Currently, I am home to owl nestlings, baby opossums, and tiny raccoons. I am also visited regularly by the skunk kits who live underneath the front porch of a nearby house.
This is unprecedented. Never have I sheltered so many babies. It just doesn’t happen. Animals like space. They like their own territory. Normally, there would be arguing. Perhaps even a stolen nest or a midnight battle.
And certainly, there’ve been some disagreements. But I’ve made it clear that eating your neighbors will not be allowed while I’m in charge.
Me, I don’t feel crowded at all having so much company.
Making others feel safe is a fine way to spend your days.
8
I have one more community member, although “visitor” is probably a better way to describe Samar.
In January, she moved with her parents into one of the houses I shade, a tiny blue house with a sagging porch and a tidy garden. She is perhaps ten years old or so, with wary eyes and a shy smile.