Before the settlers came, this place was all forest. There were trees as far as the eye could see in all directions, enough trees to get lost in for a lifetime, enough trees to make us the backbone of the country's all-important lumber industry for over a century once the settlers arrived, got the natives out of the way, and began selling the wood as fast as they could cut it down. The trees were burned, arranged into shapes that were more convenient for their new masters, replaced with concrete and steel once the supply began to dry up. Even now, after the concrete has crumbled into tiny shards that whip away on the wind, and the steel has become like hollow shells on a beach, the trees still fill the spaces between the houses, loom over the roads, crack the sidewalks with their roots. In the downtowns, where the only green life is put there by man, I still feel a sense of unease, as if all the asphalt and brick could be swallowed by the forest at any moment. We live at the edge of a cliff, leaning over the precipice but never falling off. We were trying to reach the high shelf in the closet, and we stacked a big book on top of a small one because we were young and foolish, and we laid down dozens more after that, creating a rickety tower that sways but never falls over, and we now stand on the tips of our toes, reaching out for something we can't ever quite grasp, and I wonder if it isn't only a matter of time before the whole thing falls, sending us down to the floor and breaking our tailbones.
Trees
page revision: 2, last edited: 30 Jun 2025 05:18