Thought experiment: If a tree, say one exactly like the one in the photo to the left, falls on a Wednesday evening, but someone, say me, doesn't notice it until Saturday afternoon, did that tree really fall on the Wednesday if it still existed upright for another three days in my head? Besides which, I definitely did not hear it hit the ground.It's not as if I noticed it yesterday morning either. I pottered around the house, hung out some washing, went to the movies (we saw the Irish film 'The Guard', which was an-greannmhar, which is supposedly 'very funny' in Gallic, but hey, someone on the Internet might be yanking my chain) and when I got home, I headed out the back for lunch on the Xmas swing and started to read. But something seemed not quite right. The light seemed different. I decided that the Lawnmower Man, who came by Tuesday, must have cut back the vines over the chook shed. I went to investigate.
Lo and behold, there was a massive tree trunk on the narrow strip of ground between the chook shed and the back fence. The luck of it is mind-boggling. I don't think I can fully convey how amazing it is that it didn't take out the chook shed, any of the trees in the back yard, the house...
What I, pipe in hand and deerstalker upon my head, surmise from the evidence at hand is that when storms swept across our fair state Wednesday night (I was at the Arvo Job and missed the whole spectacular), the tree internally combusted, collapsed downwards like one of those buildings that are expertly demolished with carefully placed explosives, then toppled parallel with the fence, and seems to have followed a curved trajectory out through the back gate. The gate is squashed but the fence still stands, though it is somewhat aslant.
A few of the upper branches are now suspended in the greenery over the other shed, and the top part of the tree is up against the track that runs behind the house, but doesn't block it. It's all very impressive, very convenient (if it had to happen) and amazingly graceful - like those ancient, dignified characters who decide it's a good day to die, choose their time and place, make an effort to not be a bother to anyone and lie down with a minimum of fuss and just go...
I absolutely didn't have a clue until yesterday afternoon. In my defense, it did happen way up the back of the garden, which is compartmentalised by multiple barriers overgrown with roses and vines, and everything looks fine until you get up close. Still, it was a big thing to miss. The birds have probably been lamenting the loss for days. That old tree was a regular pit stop for many a long-haul flock. Local cockies and parrots often brightened its branches and entertained the cats (though they're massively entertained by this new, fallen tree toy too.)
So, what to do now? This is a situation that requires chainsaws and utes. Like vagabond chooks, uprooted trees are not something I ever had to deal with in St Kilda, which, I suppose, is why I've written such a long post about a relatively simple, everyday occurrence. The occasional pot plant upturned by a marauding possum was about as bad as it got back on my old city balcony. Onwards to another lesson in country living. 
