In the yard we have a very tall weeping birch of many colours. The graceful weeping branches hang about the trunk like a soft burgandy mist while the trunk itself is clad in delicate shades of greens and blues due to the moss and lichen. The trunk is riddled with holes made by, from what I've seen so far, the Red-bellied Sapsucker, though there may have been others drilling before we moved here and I've yet to see them. The tree is light, airy and delicate and bridges the space between the weight and presence of the enormous Grand Fir to its left and the evergreen-ness of the Douglas Fir to its right.
From its branches I've hung the bird feeders, and the juncos and chickadees posture and tussle along its open limbs. Toward evening, the dimming light illuminates the trunk to a glowing whiteness, before it enfolds all in a slate-blue darkness and finally, the ink of evening. When the stars are out, they are tangled in the topmost net of fine branches until the morning brings the Varied Thrush to sing them free.