the Mulberry Tree

Every year the first frost heralds the oncoming winter. The frost is late this year, and sudden after a very warm fall. Before today, many of the trees still retained their green leaves. As I look out at the woods and the mountain now, though, the foliage is decidedly yellow-orange and beginning to fall.

The first frost has always been a bit of a special event in our back yard. Twenty yards from our kitchen windows towers a male mulberry tree. He's tall and old, and his trunk is nearly 3 1/2 feet across. His branches are gnarled and arthritic, the lower branches overshadowed, dying, and occassionally snapping. The leaves are waxy and heavy - not as much as magnolia leaves, but far heavier than your average maple or elm.

The mulberry holds and hoards its leaves as long as it can, no matter how yellow they are. It clutches them tightly until the first frost, when it lets go and the leaves rain to the ground. Last night it had all of its leaves. As I looked out the window this morning, only half were left. Over the next hour, it lost another quarter. If it frosts again tomorrow, the mulberry will be left bare, its gnarled and naked fingers stretched out towards the sky while at its feet lies a thick carpet of leaves. Usually that carpet is a glorious yellow; our golden retriever used to stand out there and bark and bark as those yellow leaves fell all around him. This year fall has come late and caught the green leaves by surprise. Our backyard is now under a blanket of bright, bright green.

Maybe it seems silly to describe one tree's loss of leaves, but in our house, it's almost a tradition to wait for and watch the raining mulberry. I don't draw any allegories or life lessons from it; I just watch and enjoy. You would too if you could see it.