The birch lay on its side, broken, its sharp teeth raised to a grey winter sky. It has been there for years waiting for me to notice it. It was felled in a storm, or perhaps old age took it. There was ice in the air.
It was not alone. The ground was covered in the tawny leavings of autumn curling brown under the light frost. It is a new year, but my mind skitters back to 2021, a devastating year that began with an insurrection and a pandemic and ended with democracy on its knees, wheezing.
I look again at the birch and see in its decay a nursery teaming with microbes, a home for insects, voles, and others. The decay will provide rich food for plants and animals to come. Even now the hidden roots are thinking about spring. The carpet of dead leaves shelter insect eggs and cocoons which will burst forth when the Earth warms again.
And I am left with hope that the decay I see in our democracy is also a nursery for its rebirth as new and stronger shoots of liberty burst forth.
Alan Lipp
South Deerfield