Riding home after work is an unremarkable affair. Today the cumulonimbus were erupting as usual off the coast, flushing hot pink by the sun. Rounding the corner just before home I saw what I thought was a cowling from a defaced car, all mangled and forgotten by the kerbside. It was only when I approached it closer – in the increasing darkness – I made out it was the body of a flying fox. Long dead – just as forgotten, just as mangled. Its ginger brown fur was groomed to a gloss, its eyes staring deeply into the night, fast oncoming. I often think that’s the irony of life – as brilliant as we think our lives to be – we all end up in the same place. Do bats dream too of life after death? What would heaven look like for them? I couldn’t help but feel sad for this furry little creature I glided past. How pet-like their little snout is, their twitchy ears and soft downy fur beckoning for a loving scratch.
I dug a hole underneath my newly planted liquidambar. The soil beneath the mulch was sumptuously warm and squirming in all directions. I have left it for the tree to embrace and braid this little guy, into their roots, trunk and leaves – part gift, part invocation. It catches up with us all in the end – we are but a party for worms and a million thankful microbes.