The destructive impact of released balloons is long standing, yet the practice continues. Across the street from my house, in the neighbor's backyard, snagged high in the upper branches of a mature Norway Maple tree, flutter three mylar balloons, either released on purpose or escapees. Either way, after several severe wind storms over the last month that failed to free them, it seems that they will remain in my line of sight for quite some time. Visual pollution. A clutter to my wonder when I watch the daily journey of the murder of crows fly from the south, over the tree topped hills, mean north. So many crows, sometimes over a hundred. Now when I watch them, I see those three mylar balloons, and I'm annoyed that they're there, and that they'll remain there for who knows how long. Sure, there are certain elements of irony and ennui with trapped balloons, even a mirroring of the meaning of all existence. If the balloons were there for only one day, then I would have an appreciation for what they represent, but six weeks on...If that tree were mine, I'd cut it down.
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