Branching Out

The Lament of an Evergreen

I am an evergreen—steadfast, ancient, rooted. Not far from me, a hive of little humans bursts into life when their bell tolls. They scatter across the open field like ants—quick, loud, chaotic.

Little changes, year to year. Though lately, my roots ache. They’ve stretched too close to the sidewalk—my most tender nerves pressing against human stone. Still, I’m grateful. The soil cradles me. The Great Soil, the Great Bright Yellow, and the rare but blessed Great Wet—these are the triad that have nurtured my kind.

Not far from here stands my Creator—a monument of bark and memory. The wind speaks of him in reverent tones, and carries legends: that once, long ago, he released seeds to the wind, and from them, we rose—my family, my self. It’s strange to think I was once like those new buds in the grass. Now, I tower—silent, watching.

Yesterday, two small humans etched their marks into me. It did not hurt. But then they tried to climb—snapping my limbs, swinging them at each other in mockery. When they tired of the game, they left my severed arms behind, to wither on the earth. As if to add insult to injury, a hairy, four-legged human came and relieved itself at my base.

I try to laugh. The birds that nest in me tell tales—humans place manure near our roots deliberately. Apparently, it helps us grow. As if they are fattening us—like the four-legged ones they raise and eat when grown.

If we aren’t cultivated to be consumed, then we are harvested to house them. Last season, I watched in horror as one of my kin was hauled in on a thunderous machine. She was already fading, her color drained. Five large humans surrounded her—each with sharp, toothed tools. In a dance of violence, they sliced her open—deliberate, cruel. When they paused to drink their strange potions, it only stoked their frenzy. Piece by splintered piece, they reassembled her into a square monument. They painted her corpse. A disguise, a denial. A silent grave.

For days, she stood untouched.Then another machine arrived, bearing more weapons—the very blades that felled her.The humans laughed as they packed the toolsinto her hollowed body.The irony was unbearable.

Beyond her, the enslaved trees stand. Shaped and clipped by their human masters—their branches humiliated into ornamental forms. They are given the Great Wet on command, forced to grow in view of their fallen kin. Decorations for a graveyard.

And then there is Fire—a force of destruction gifted to humans. Every year, those with cracked garments and blank expressions come to cut me back. I heard one say if I touch the long, humming lines that stretch between human dwellings, I will be Fired. A slow death.

I’ve seen it. My cousins blackened and curling in agony.

Once, the little humans conjured Fire themselves. They tore pieces of us from their fabric, swung their arms, and suddenly my Creator—ancient and mighty—was ablaze. His cries echoed through the grove. The Fire fed on him, grew bold.

Then, a tall human appeared. The children scattered. He raised a red tube—and the Great Wet poured out, extinguishing the flames. Why? Was it to save him for his own purpose? Or did guilt stir his hand? How can they command both Fire and Rain?

And the air—oh, the air…It thickens with every season. We give them breath, but they return only poison. When their machines roar past, they leave behind a choking fog that lingers long after their departure.

We have never attacked them. We shelter their birds, their bugs, feed their squirrels, gift them fruit and fragrance, and still, they strip our bark and take our bodies. Some of us even bleed sweet sap—used on their cold white roads.

And winter…when the sky cries its heavy, white sorrow, it burdens my arms until I bend. I cannot sleep like my deciduous kin. I remain awake. Alone.

Each year, my siblings are stolen. I hear their final cries—“Timber!” they scream, and the humans cheer.

I watched once as they dressed my sisterin glittering trophies, mocking her fall.They crowned her with a starand displayed her like a prize.When the show ended,they dragged her to the roadside,discarded.A great machine came and claimed her.

My brother was not so lucky. He died in silence—inside. Smoke rose from the house that took him.

Now, I can see farther than ever—because there are fewer of us to block the view. With every passing season, I wonder...

Am I next?