Donovan Kelly

Whose tree this is, I think I know. It’s mine. Or better, ours, a boundary tree blazed 30 years ago by a surveyor to mark where Good Neighbor Bob begins and I end. The boundary line where my weekend cabin dreams end and Bob's begin.

The surveyor blazed bright slashes on a line of trees along our boundary, but the blazing scars have dulled with time. So about a month ago, when spring wandered close but the trees remained winter bare and you could still see forever, I developed a Near Spring itch to renew the marks that separated Bob from me. I slid and stumbled down the ridge to spray a fresh band of bright red on the boundary trees that stood between Bob and me.

Why? You might as well ask a dog why he marks the bushes, the bear scratches trees or the graffiti artist sprays symbols on urban walls. The trees, shrubs and walls did not ask us to leave our marks. The world did not become a better place because of our efforts.

There was no boundary dispute that called for fresh paint. Good Neighbor Bob and I freely walk each other’s woods and share all deer and turkey. To steal again from Robert Frost, I had no fear that his oaks would attack my hickories.

So why did I paint the boundary trees between us? Because I wanted to show my pride in being a part of “whose woods these are.” Because good boundaries make good male neighbors. But mostly because it was Near Spring and I was stirred to explore and mark the edges of what is me and mine.

I knew it was Near Spring because a male bluebird brought home another female to check out what both he and I think is the best birdhouse on the ridge. Last weekend, his date spent several hours inspecting the birdhouse before dumping both of us. Today, he had a new girl. I didn’t like her. He gave her an engagement worm, which she accepted. A few minutes later he put his best moves on her, but she flew away in a huff. He chased after her, apologizing, “I’m sorry! I’m sorry! What did I do wrong?”

I know what he did wrong. He was male. It was Near Spring, a most difficult time for males. A time when males tend to make rash moves. Tomorrow would be warmer and greener. Yesterday was for seeing clearly with winter bare eyes. Today was for marking our boundaries and dreaming what might be, but not for actually doing.

Kelly writes from the bluebird zone of Hamilton, Va. Spare worms can be sent to donovan@donovanwrites.com.