Would we notice?

What if, when birds grow old and flight becomes too hard they, they don’t die?

What if, instead, they choose a tree and settle there amongst the leaves?

Wouldn’t it be summer?

And what if it was and the birds were so old and so tired that flight was no longer necessary? Wouldn’t they just rest?

And what if that resting was such that they never moved again?

Mightn’t they become a leaf?

What if they did? Would we notice?

And what if those birds, those leaves started to change colour?

Would we look at the leaves, or at the colours? Would we see reds and gold, yellows and orange, or would we see leaves?

Wouldn’t it be autumn?

So, wouldn’t the leaves start to fall?

And though some would be carried on the wind for one last flight, wouldn’t most fall at the foot of the tree?

And wouldn’t the colours fade and wouldn’t the leaves merge into the soil and nourish the tree?

Wouldn’t it be winter?

And then, wouldn’t the snow maybe come and the ground turn hard and wouldn’t everything freeze, until there was nothing that remained of all this except the tree?

Waiting.

For what?

Wouldn’t it be spring?

And wouldn’t, suddenly, everything begin again – slowly at first then with haste?

And wouldn’t the tree issue forth new leaves?

And wouldn’t those leaves crowd and bustle, uncurl and open?

And mightn’t some of them become birds? Sing? And fly away?

Would we notice?

Or would we just find the empty nest?