The man who knew trees.
He
moved like a man who knew trees -
not as
objects, or even equals -
but, certain
in his mind
that
here were the greatest of all living creatures,
he
stepped comfortably and quietly through the wood
and,
without presumption or design,
acknowledged
every one as if it were a friend.
“Trees,”
he
said, speaking as a believer would when entering a church,
“are the oldest
living beings on the earth,
and make our span
seem like a second’s passing.
If, out of necessity,
we have to cut one down,
we should first beg
its forgiveness,
as do hunters, living
off the land,
when they must kill
an animal for food,
out of respect
because they know the
prey control the hunt;
or like a reluctant
executioner
whose duty is to make
a martyr of a saint.
For whenever an old
tree dies or is destroyed,
we lose a library
where birds and
animals have always come
to gain the knowledge
of all of nature’s ways
and even we can, if
we have a mind,
study how the world is
made.”
