I have spent the morning harvesting bark and goat forage from the fallen willow. Willow, as you know, is unstoppable and the tree keeps giving from her recumbency. She’s just bursting into leaf now, greening where she fell in a late winter storm, still verdant and fertile, her lime green catkins now swelling into silvery seeds. (Willow is dioecious, carrying male and female catkins on separate trees; I say “she” here quite literally). I’ve been waiting until the time is just right to harvest the bark before my husband cuts the timber for firewood: when the sap has risen and the tannins are high, before she sets her seeds on the wind. I will use the bark for medicine and tanning sheepskins. I use willow bark for all manner of ailments where there is inflammation or pain, and where cooling astringency is warranted (it’s incredible for burns, I can attest). It grows wildly, abundantly, generously on our wet, rugged land and is a first aid staple around here, liberally splashed or sipped …