It’s not that the northern flicker
is trying to harm the tree—
though it’s drilled hundreds of holes
and the trunk appears to have been hit
with hundreds of bullets
aimed in straight horizontal lines.
The holes are a sign that already
the tree was in distress. It is dying.
Its needles turning to rust.
I notice how I might like to blame
the bird. The bird is not to blame.
I might like to blame the bugs—
but they are doing their invertebrate
work, doing what larvae do.
Is their life a problem? Is my life
a problem? What else might I learn
from this dying tree?
This feasting bird? This grieving me?