One summer I woke to the songbirds nested outside my window singing. I felt nauseous from their beauty (or the disrupted sleep) and anxious to join in their festivity, let my soul melt through the frigid walls of my house. I took note of their bright colours and the way their voices waltzed. They called that tree with spiraling white flowers home and nibbled at the ink cherries sprouted throughout.
They did not ration their hunger but rather fed till their bellies were dyed. I wanted a cherry: the tender skin and plump flesh called out to me, I could already taste the juice staining my teeth. But it felt selfish to ask the ancient tree to sacrifice more than it had already donated.
Instead, I sucked my tongue on the history the withered wood must have seen spanning its life. It had lived through more stories than I could ever read. Been granted more wisdom than I could ever attain. The only motif that matters was those extending arms of hope and folds of tranquility.
At that moment I felt jealous of the tree who had given so much and still had more to give.