It is probably the wrong time of year to prune a tree but today happened to be the time I remembered to cut the spruce branches hanging at forehead level over the front walkway. With the rain we've been having, forgetting to duck under the tree was like opening a door with a bucket of water fall balanced overhead. I grabbed the electric saw, stood under the nest of branches, and started sawing. Torrents of dry little bits of stuff rained down; and as soon as I'd sawed through the branch, I treated the neighbors to the sight of me doing a little dance, backing away, shaking my shoulders, brushing myself off, leaning over and batting at my hair with both hands. Bugs! In those bits of bark, dead needles and twigs there were sure to be bugs.
Years ago there was a different blue spruce in a different front yard. It had snowed and I brought my three-month-old son to the window to show him the snow and watch the sun rise. We had an Airedale then, too. It was one of those moments when you know you have everything--just for that moment--that you could possibly want. And then it's gone.