behind the museum, the moss was plentiful, draping gray from near every branch. sometimes i had to jump for a grip, and sometimes it trailed within easy reach. meandering from tree to tree, sometimes climbing up a low arm i stuffed a grocery bag.
before my last tree, i felt a sharp, throbbing pain in my right elbow and next to the pinkie finger of my left hand. i was drawn up as sharply as a small child stung by a wasp, but i didn't make a sound. there had been no visible or audible insects, and i wondered if the continuous stinging could be an allergic reaction to the epiphytes. it also crossed my mind that fire ants could have been nesting in the trees, and might be crawling around inside the plastic bag.
i sucked on my reddish, swelling hand but couldn't do anything for my elbow, which was mottled magenta. walking by the lake, back towards the museum, i passed ducks nestling in the shade. there were no drinking fountains for rinsing my skin, so all there was to do was keep calm. davitt had said that the singing tree was near NOMA, and that he'd laid under it for an hour, but i'd never seen or heard it.
reason said that the tree must be fairly large, and isolated enough that wind could sidle against the chimes. every few yards i stopped and listened hard for anything that resembled a bell, any fluty murmur. i might have looked distracted as joggers pounded past. i thought about how seldom anyone has to listen for something they can't see, has to sort over the buzz of traffic and under the chatter of pedestrians. probably a lot -- actually, in any city, -- but this sought sound was mysterious to me, something even to distinguish from the shrill ache in my arm.
for a long time i stood looking at pond scum and, and then for a while by reeds, gazing at the fountain at the center of the lake. perhaps if i had asked a passerby... but then it was there, like imagining a fork tapped once against a wine glass. unlike my cat, whose ears turn towards the direction of a whisper, the mew of a friend beyond the window, i scanned the distance for massive trunks. a few steps in any direction then pause, willing the breeze to push towards me a similar vibration.
there was no silvery glimmer between branches, to attract a far away eye, but like a stray bubble, the pitch popped before me. with increasing confidence, i sleepwalked towards the source, octaves of shimmer on alternating gusts. it's amazing that though sound has no physical bulk, it can be pulled and stretched, or ripped away. there it was, across the field, with a cluster of people sitting on the grass.
the third bite came at the same moment, and i screamed as the knuckle of my thumb lit up. i threw my bag down -- a caterpillar as long as my finger, and as wide around crawled along its strap. it was densely girded with super-pronged red and black antlers. this was the first time i had seen the varmint, and i trod on him and hurried away.
last spring, a postal carrier mentioned that he was afraid of the caterpillars that fell out of the trees this time of year. he had cautioned me to keep an eye out, lest one fall down the back of my collar. none revealed themselves to me, but i stayed wary when sitting in the garden or biking uptown. i could not have guessed how much it would hurt just to have one graze against your skin. if it had happened while pedaling, i would most likely have flipped myself into traffic.
as it was, i strode over to the tree and knelt down, the glissando already washing over me. the circumference of the trunk was wide enough that from any vantage you could see three three or four clusters of chimes. hung high, dark metal pipes circled a disk; long and fat tubular bells gave off a gentle gong, thin and short ones produced a shiver. with the curls of wind through the leaves, they rang in unpredictable turns, but in harmonious accord. the chimes were tuned to one another, so there was a harmony on the verge of melody. sitting there, when not sucking on my burning thumb and spitting into the grass, i hummed. someone with skill could have formed a song between the warm drone and the meandering twinkle.
other visitors came and went. a lady and her daughter spread a blanket. two boys sat down at the opposite side. another mother cycled up, lifted her little girl out of the baby seat, and proceeded to walk in slow circles around the tree. i wanted to draw or write to the music, but could articulate no thoughts. i tried to make a field recording, but my phone couldn't catch the range of chimes.
(thanks latonolawordpress and youtube!)
heading back to my ride, and wishing for ice, i checked the ground where i had stepped on the caterpillar. it was still writhing around. unlike a tick, that drops from above when it senses the warm body of a food source, this poisonous bug fell only as a dumb thing. though it looks like a spiny devil, and their infestation is actually troublesome for the trees, it does mature into the striking buck moth.
 |
| thanks google image search! |
if you'd like to know more about the singing oak: thermo nuclear studios
