Sycamore
We packed up our apartment in Dublin in December, and moved to the outskirts of Limerick, two hours away. We made jokes about our new suburban life, peered through the windows cynically. Over the following months, we marveled that so little could happen in a place with so many houses. I felt like life was harder to notice here - you really had to squint to see it. The sycamore tree in our back garden teemed with life. Early on, we bought a plastic bird feeder and every week thereafter I dutifully dropped two bags of wild bird seed into my trolley. I came to recognise starlings, sparrows, chaffinches, blue tits, doves, crows, blackbirds, even - twice - a minuscule wren. One magpie (sorrow); sometimes two (joy). In January, when our budgie died, we buried him between the roots. In March, we pinned tufts of our dog's winter coat to the branches and watched in delight as it was claimed as nest material. When the tree was bare, our guests would watch patiently from the neighbours' w...