A couple of weeks ago I was standing by the lake’s edge one morning, with chai, when from behind came a thunderous tearing crack, followed very soon after by a crash. It was a couple of days after rains, so I thought it might have been a branch falling from one of the larger gums. On the lake, meanwhile, all the purple swamphens, plus a couple of roaming Australian shelducks, had all paused what they were doing, and fully extended their necks, craning to see what had caused the noise. For me the noise, while audible, was not so significant, but for the birds it seemed to be of utmost importance. Their pause continued, waiting for anything to follow, but nothing came. Eventually the swamphens began mostly moving slowly towards their hideout in the reeds; the shelducks stayed put—for a couple of minutes they seemed to move more cautiously, their necks still extended, until gradually one by one they began retuning to their morning work.

Today I again passed by the branch fallen from one of the large gums. Someone had dragged it back from the walkway so that its snapped end seemed to extend almost directly from where the trunk met the ground, its smaller branches pointing up, its leaves no longer green but a crumpled, dryed-out brown. I looked up to where it had fallen from, and followed another branch still attached with leaves still green and life-filled. And maybe it is this simple: What is life? It is that which is perceived, with all organs open, when I look at the difference between the clump of dried, rusty leaves of the fallen branch, and the vibrant springing green of the ones higher up, still attached.