Trees, trees, trees. Oh, the countless thousands of hours I've spent in this life contemplating trees--ever since I was knee high to a coon dog. Some may say that I am making it up, but I vividly remember my neighbor's weeping willow tree when I was 5 years old. Unlike my daughter, I can remember a lot of my early childhood. And a lot of those memories were actually connected with trees. From age 4 I remember my grandfather's cherry tree. He had placed me up in a branch. I held on for dear life with both hands. Eventually, I braved releasing one hand from the tree branch and reaching out to pick a cherry and eat it. Except for the fear, I was like a monkey in a tree. I ended eating so many cherries I got sick.

 

My daughter may not remember her early childhood but I sure do. And a certain tree suddenly comes to mind. It was a boxelder tree and it grew right outside the kitchen window of the cabin we were living in while my daughter was just under one year old. It was in Madrid, New Mexico just south of Santa Fe. Madrid was an old mining ghost town that had been reinhabited by hippies in the Seventies. In the Eighties, renegade artists and other social outcasts invigorated the ghost town. The population of humans was around 300 then but the animal population was far greater.

 

Living in the ghost town of Madrid (pronounced, MAD'-rid) was like living in the middle of a vibrant wildlife sanctuary. I've never in my life seen so many wild creatures of the desert. Especially birds; Madrid was on the migratory flight path of scores of exotic birds. I don't think I went a day in the five months we lived there without seeing at least one bald eagle.

 

But bald eagles were year-round residents. Other birds came up from Mexico and Central America on their northerly migrations. I saw yellow birds and red birds and blue birds and green birds. I saw birds I couldn't even begin to identify. It was weird to be in the American Southwest desert and see tropical birds. For me, it was like a little slice of bird heaven--and everyone knows how weird I am about birds.

 

The daughter had finally given up the teat there in Madrid and I had taken over the mother duties. I was still pretty new at it. I sure was happy! My own little baby and a bunch of birds to boot!

 

That boxelder tree that grew just outside the kitchen window was the ideal place for birdwatching. You didn't even have to leave the house. With my beloved bundle of baby in my arms I merely had to stand at the kitchen window and watch all the birds congregate in that boxelder tree that seemed to grow right out of the side of the cabin. You could stand just a few inches on the inside of the window glass and, if you didn't move, the birds would all gather in the boxelder tree and chirp and socialize like crazy. At times it was louder than a political convention.

 

I spent many hours just standing there a few inches to the glass watching birds I had never seen before. It was like having an executive box seat looking into a whole different world. That bird world was like a whole 'nother dimension. It was like peering in on a different planet.

 

If you think humans are social creatures, I'm afraid I must inform you that birds are far more social than humanoids. Man, they've got an entire advanced civilization going on; one that most humans are oblivious to. That kitchen window box seat helped make me aware of it and I've never seen birds the same since. I don't remember who it was but some spiritual know-it-all once said that the chirping of birds is what holds up the hologram we know as reality; that if there was no chirping of birds our reality would collapse. I have come to believe--through almost a half-century of experience--that this is most emphatically true.

 

So anyway, there came a day when I was standing just inches away from the kitchen window looking out into the boxelder tree--my precious bundle of baby in my arms--and a freakish experience happened. I don't remember if I was walking the baby to get her ready for a nap or if we were just looking out the window. I do remember, to my surprise, that there weren't very many birds in the tree. There must have been a big get-together going on somewhere else in town; or so I thought. Normally, at that time of day, the boxelder tree was a veritable bird party. My daughter's attention would be immediately on all the birds. My daughter could point with her arm at some bird that tickled her fancy and the birds wouldn't budge. If I were to stick out my arm and point at a bird they would all take off en masse.

 

But there wasn't much going on. A few birds would arrive in the tree but they would immediately take off. Nonetheless, we continued staring into the tree in hopes of spying some bird we hadn't seen yet. And that's when it happened....

 

Suddenly, and I do mean suddenly, I was staring right into the face of a bull snake. The snake's head was just inches away from the glass and my daughter and I were just inches on this side of the glass. I don't know where it came from but it was just suddenly there right in front of my face.

 

Amazingly, I didn't freak out although I did take a step back. That's how long it took my brain to register the fact that there was glass separating the snake from myself and my baby. It's eyes were looking directly into my eyes--or at least that's how it seemed. It's tongue was darting in and out of its mouth at lightning speed. It's head was motionless hanging in the air just inches from the glass.

 

Fear rushed through me--especially in regard to my baby--but it quickly drained right through me. I took that one step back but then stopped, motionlessly staring right into the snake's eyes. We stared at each other for what seemed like a very long time. The only thing that moved was the snake's tongue.

 

I remember wondering what my baby was thinking about the snake, in fact I was wondering if she even saw it. But I didn't look at her. My stare could not be broken from the snake's eyes. I was mesmerized. If it was a stare-down contest, the snake won.

 

Finally, my eyes stepped back and I took in the bigger picture. Going from the snake's head my gaze followed the snake's body through suspended air until it reached a part of the body that was wrapped around a thick branch of the boxelder tree. My eyes followed the spiraling body of the snake down the branch to a lower branch. And then leaving the spiral was a long tail dangling in the air. It was a very fat snake. It's body was as thick as my upper arm. And no, my upper arms are nothing like those of Arnold Scwarzenegger but they're not skinny either. I don't think I could have put my hand around the body of the snake; it would have taken both hands.

 

I'm pretty sure that at this point I said to myself, "Holy shit!" I figured it was at least 5 to 6 feet long and it could easily have eaten a small dog for lunch. The head was as big as my clenched fist. And the colors! How could I have not seen it right there in front of my face? The colors and designs on the snake seemed to match the color and texture of the bark of the boxelder tree. It blended right in.

 

Of course, the birds seemed to notice. Perhaps that is why they were staying away from the tree. If I couldn't spot the snake until it was literally right in my face, how did those birds spot it before they even perched in the tree? Those birds! I reminded myself that I had never seen a bird wearing glasses.

 

So anyway, I stared at that snake for a seemingly infinte time. Almost to infinity and beyond. For me, it was darn near a religious experience staring so closely into those snake eyes for so long. I've never connected so deeply and intensely with a snake.

 

And then, suddenly, the snake backed away. It recoiled its head about 6 to 8 inches, stopping to look directly at me some more. Perhaps it needed a slightly different perspective. And then the snake abruptly started to slither down the tree. To do this, it spiraled down over its own body, which was slithering up the tree to a point where it turned and starting slithering down. The colors were like looking through God's kaleidoscope.

 

I stepped up close--right up to the glass--to see where the snake was slithering down to. To my horror, I watched the snake slither all the way down the tree and onto the ground. And then it went under the cabin!

 

For the next two months that we lived in that cabin I often wondered if that snake still lived under the cabin and if there was any way it could make it up through the foor. It never did, though. I never saw the snake again.