They were close enough now he could hear the falling. For weeks, it had only been the faint hum of the saws that let him know they were there; the passing by of trucks, loaded down with logs. They had started at the back and moved forward, working their way out of the old woods.
Why he could not separate his heart from the sound of those trees hitting the ground, he didn’t know exactly. He’d fell his fair share. But each he had mourned, and every stick was utilized. This… This was slaughter—carcasses stacked like whale, like buffalo. No one would kneel before these giants and apologize, send their spirits off with song.
Perhaps that was the pain he felt. Not the loss of the trees, but the lack of respect in taking them, the carelessness, the separation. How could they live with themselves, these men, doing what they do? They couldn’t possibly have hearts. He hated that he was unable to stop them, that he was helpless against their greed. Perhaps it wasn’t pain at all he felt, but fear. Fear, that in the nearing end, he would be little more than a tree.