Woodrow the woodpecker lived in a maple tree. The maple tree stood tall and strong and deep in the forest—surrounded by many other trees who provided homes for flocks of other birds. When Woodrow sat in the nest he built he felt as tall and strong as the maple tree he perched atop (perhaps a little bit more-so). Settled among the twigs and leaves and grassy debris he felt a certain comfort deep in his bones. He never questioned or wondered how the maple tree came to be. He didn’t know that at one point in time his maple tree was smaller than the smallest claw on his phalange—once a seed buried beneath the forest floor—deep within the rich soil long before it had a sprouting chance to grow among the canopy he gazed upon now.
All Woodrow cared to know was the fact of “here and now.” He didn’t want to bother or boggle his mind with scientific botanistic concepts of the past. He was the king of his oak tree and all the creatures below him and about him had to yield to his rhythmic drumming. The story of how Woodrow acquired his current home is quite a unique one.
When Woodrow was still a chick; yet to launch from his parental nest, still keeping company with his siblings, he spent his time between meals scouting the forest for a place to call his own. One early morning with a gut full of grub he eagle-eyed the perfect spot. The only problem: it was already occupied by a Goldfinch. Unphased by this reality, Woodrow studied the schedule and behavior patterns of the Goldfinch from the filial nest he swiftly diverged from. The little finch woke early and eagerly each morning at 4:15. The flighty bird was young (but not newly launched) nonetheless Woodrow thought it would be a fair fight. With each day Woodrow grew stronger; his parents brought him and his siblings insects, larvae and grubs—then beetles, spiders, caterpillars, fruit, and suet. Woodrow fought and wrestled and wrangled with his siblings for every last morsel of nutrients (he knew he needed all the strength he could siphon from his siblings if he hoped to reside where that cocky Goldfinch perched.
It was time. Finally, the moment of total domination arrived. Woodrow had plenty of practice with his siblings (it really was too bad that Stevie had to go, but Woodrow needed the practice and Stevie had no fighting instinct). Without a thank you or a note of love to the family that raised him from egg to fledgling chick, Woodrow fled the nest. He made a straight course for the Goldfinch—wasting no time to process the forest that once towered over him now gliding freely below his birds-eye view. The romance of flight was a bore to Woodrow; he was a bird on a mission and dominance awaited him. Without much tactical thought he landed on a branch below the Goldfinch and leered up at the jovial avian. He was constructing a nest likely awaiting his partner’s return from her own scavenger hunt for food. Woodrow sulked and sauntered back and forth on the lower tiered branch; decided to wait until the Goldfinch finished crafting the nest—why waste time building that which can be brutally acquired? As the Goldfinch placed the final twig Woodrow made his move. With a hop and a flutter of his wings he was level with the Goldfinch. The Goldfinch was startled, but expected none of the brutality Woodrow had in store. In fact the little Goldfinch hoped he might find a new friend in Woodrow. Before this thought could materialize the Goldfinch was thwarted and casted from his own nest, and with a thump he greeted the forest floor. There he lay as Woodrow assumed ownership of the Goldfinch’s nest.
Woodrow’s family witnessed the scene unfold—speechless. When Woodrow’s siblings took flight they steered themselves to the opposite end of the forest.
Woodrow nestled into his new home and allowed slumber to overtake his body and soul. He had not slept long before he was stirred awake from a sniffling sound on the forest floor. A female Woodpecker was perched on a woodchip with her head hung low and a sorrowful tweetling accompanying her soul. She had a wing hung around the Goldfinch, what a peculiar thing for a Woodpecker to do, thought Woodrow. Partly from annoyance that his nap was disturbed and partly from curiosity of this new and lovely Woodpecker, Woodrow descended from his nest. He landed on a twig growing from the forest floor so he stood taller than the beaten Goldfinch and the sobbing Woodpecker. His ears had not deceived him; she was mourning the Goldfinch, but why?
Woodrow made himself known but the Woodpecker was so consumed in her grief she had not a clue she was no longer alone; so when Woodrow interjected, “Miss would you mind mourning elsewhere? I’m trying to sleep and your sniffling is bothersome,” the female Woodpecker startled and instinctually covered the Goldfinches’ body with both of her wings. She stifled through tears and told Woodrow to leave her alone, “Can’t you tell my mate is dying? Have you any sympathy for this personal devastation? There is nothing in this life that will bring me more sorrow than the death of this Goldfinch.” Woodrow understood the words the Woodpecker said, but he did not understand the emotional scaffolding. He said nothing more and left the Woodpecker and the Goldfinch; clasping a large pebble before he made his assent.
When he was halfway to the inlet where his nest rested he peered back at the Goldfinch and the Woodpecker. The Woodpecker continued to hold him tenderly and Woodrow enraged himself at the thought of how she could care for such a weak bird. The large pebble in his claws grew heavy the longer he held it and without a second thought Woodrow released it over the head of the Woodpecker. By the time he returned to his nest the sobbing had halted.
When Woodrow burrowed into the Goldfinches’ nestling to resume his nap he shimmied and shifted his way through the inlet. Because Woodrow took this nest by force and knew nothing of the previous owner other than his morning routine—Woodrow didn’t know about the supernatural nature of this nest. This nest was a wormhole—so when Woodrow suddenly and without warning felt frigid water wash over him and freeze his wings to his side he was petrified. With this novel sensation Woodrow’s world instantly darkened. He tried to flap and fly away, but his efforts left him exhausted and hopeless. Hapless and alone he floated in uncertainty.
A new idea sprung to Woodrow’s mind and he tried to stretch his beak out to feel for the bark and perhaps reorient himself in the void he half-wittingly entered into. He stretched and recoiled too many times to count, but his inquiries were met by stifling nothingness. Deflated and defeated once again Woodrow floated liminally—whether his eyes were opened or closed he didn’t know.
As a Woodpecker, Woodrow didn’t sing—it simply wasn’t in his nature, but as he drifted through the mysterious, cold, dark space, the smallest “tweet” you ever heard escaped from his beak; he thought he sounded weak like that other Woodpecker mourning the pathetic little Goldfinch. Such a sound was so foreign to Woodrow that he nearly flew out of his own feathers! He thought the sound might have come from another bird and he wasn’t really alone in this cold, dark space. But before that thought could settle, another “tweet” echoed from within his body—as though the peculiar trip from tree trunk to bleak void hollowed him out. Of course it hadn’t, but the sensation haunted him so. Woodrow didn’t know he was capable of such sorrow. Woodrow didn’t know such sorrow existed. As the feeling sunk deeper Woodrow felt as small as the smallest claw on his phalange—smaller in fact!
Certain his death was inevitable he hummed a song his mother sang to him and his siblings before they hatched. He could hardly remember the entire tune but patched together bits and pieces of the melody. As he hummed he cried and his whole body trembled. He trembled and trembled until he shook himself to sleep.
Woodrow was mistaken—death did not overtake him. He woke to the sound of sobbing and his own trembling body. At first he thought the sobs were his too, but a peek over his nestling revealed that same Woodpecker sniffling. Woodrow brought his right wing to his head and discovered a thawing sensation. He did not question the reality of the wormhole. He only wondered why. He thought the female Woodpecker might know something of the matter so he slowly hoped his way down to the forest floor once more. When he arrived he immediately spotted the pebble he had dropped on them before; it laid where it had before he ever picked it up, and there it would lay forever more.
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