Along the main road, near the place where the osprey nest, is a stand of old yellow birch trees. The biggest of them sits apart. Its thick scarred roots spread out and sink down into a moss covered hillock that gives softly beneath your feet, so that you come near with care, as if approaching an ancient sacred place.
The trunk of this tree has been twisted by centuries of swirling wind and its bark is deeply creviced, almost black with age. A whole branch, itself as big as a mature tree, has grown far out from the main trunk and rests its weight on the ground, slowly undulating away in the direction of the cove. The tree wears the calamities of age. Yet as hollow and ravaged and scarred as it is, it is deeply alive even in winter, dappled and pied with lichen and moss, home to innumerable insects and small burrowing creatures. It is thought to be the largest and oldest yellow birch tree in Nova Scotia. But no matter: it is a wonder just in itself.
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