The Mushroom and the Songbird

We Are Actors in Their Drama

A Bicknell’s Thrush feeding young / © Bryan Pfeiffer

This is the third in a trilogy of essays about life falling to earth in autumn. Links to the others are below.

THE mushroom is slender and diminutive. From its rightful place on a mossy carpet in evergreen woods, it wouldn’t be too much of a stretch to say that the mushroom displays a certain elegance and dignity.

The songbird, well, it’s somewhat unruly and plain by comparison. Hey, sorry, not every imperiled bird can be colorful and melodious, not even an iconic songbird in trouble on a warming planet.

But before I can reveal for you the charm and meaning in the mushroom and the songbird, before I can complete their story, you’ll want to know something about the gentle rain of conifer needles. It’s happening now.

Don’t let anyone fool you about the pines, spruces, firs, and other evergreen trees. Like the vivid leaves of maple and poplar and oak, a good number of conifer needles do indeed fall to earth each autumn. I discovered this decades ago on a breezy day in October here in Vermont. While seated and minding my own business beneath a Balsam Fir, I received a steady sprinkling of its needles. They fell like dry and delicate raindrops, landing on and around me in audible ticks, taps, and tidicks. The episode became for me yet another way to be aware in the good company of a tree.