Your presence is familiar, yet your purpose forgotten. Since your taproot first gorged into the soil, you have endured blizzard and storm, darkness and drought. In earth’s great quilt, you have made the corner of this particular patch your own. Your rings have grown with each cycle of the sun and moon, each remembering tales of the emergence of life, and the silence of death. Every dawn you drew vitality from sky and soil, and every dusk you stretched your reach a little further. This recent cycle began as any other; a stirring warmth upon the tips of your leaves, and a raucous chorus to celebrate the rising sun. But then a grievous stillness fell, leaving a void so profound it could only be meant for you…
When the smooth-skinned beings first brought you here, your trunk was little more than a twig. They dreamed how your roots would grow strong, and your canopy broad – a purpose you would fulfil. Their patch offered little nourishment; the soil thin and depleted. Close to the fringes, they gouged a hole in the earth. When placed in this new earth, your root tips recoiled at the unfamiliar mineral balance, the strange acidity. Nevertheless, this hole was to be your home. There they placed you, root ball and all, taking care that no tender filament was crushed or broken as soil was pressed around you once more.
When the sun rose next, you were the first to feel its warmth. A ripple of steps approached, followed by the trickle of moisture to your roots. With little else to share your soil with, you indulged in the damp earth below and the energy from above. Your tips probed out and down through clay and stone, seeking the pockets where water collected. Through many cycles you became familiar with the feeling of your new home, and when the air became thick and warm, you had built a network vast enough to sustain yourself. Once, the sun became so intense it sucked moisture from your leaves faster than you could replace it, so the ripple of steps would return to your aid. But when the skies brought rain of its own, the rhythmic care of the smooth-skinned beings faded into memory as you basked under a barrage of droplets.
But what they gave was enough. Beneath your trunk, reserves of water gathered for you to tap when needed. They were essential, for the plentiful days would never last. Whether it was the unforgiving winds that tore through your canopy, the biting frosts that gnawed at your trunk, or the bitter darkness that long prevailed; you endured it all. No matter how fierce the storm, you drew vitality from the depths of your root system. When the warmth returned, you rose from your dormant slumber and thrived. The beings who brought you here were right to trust in you, and it would not take long for you to begin fulfilling their dreams.
Buds burst from your branches and basked in the beams of light. Soon, they would unfurl into leaves and stretch wide. The steady rains trickled from their tips, along and down your body, immersing your roots in moisture. With each passing sun, you grew, and grew, and grew. As your canopy expanded outward, it was not just your own foliage you would support, but other feathered beings. They fell from the sky and emerged from the hedgerow, straight into the thicket of your embrace. Clutching your outer twigs, they sang a throaty tune, and nipped at the furry-bodied crawlers who clambered all over. As the moon waxed and waned, they gathered their twiglet home, under which strain your branches began to quiver. But with the strength of sun and soil feeding your cambium, you developed thicker limbs and broader leaves, creating a safe enclosure as they weaved the final stems together.
They would not be the only ones to shelter beneath your canopy. Soon the soil would awaken, and seeds would arise. Shoots of green gasped for air through the broken stone. Petals of yellow and white bloomed around the fringes of the soil. Others would even develop strong trunks like you, and join in the clamour for warmth from a distant flame. Their roots intertwined with yours, sharing nutrients and exchanging silent messages with all who dwelled in the soil. What was once barren, now became home to a myriad of travellers: the pollen-bringers, the many-legged crawlers, the burrowers, the trunk-climbers, and the tunnelers. Even as they fell silent when the moon arose, your patch stirred with nocturnal beings who snuffled, hooted and rustled amongst your roots.
Only when frosts returned under the cover of darkness did a quiet descend. When the whispering chill bit at your bark, all around you would retreat. Some took to the skies, never to be seen again. Others burrowed deeper, taking refuge in the long night. Those with whom you shared the soil dropped their petals, and shed their leaves. But not you. Your green remained, defiant against the cold. While ice crystals formed on your outer bark, your inner sap continued to flow, and your leaves shimmered a glossy, emerald green. For those who remained, you became a beacon of shelter, protection, and precious winter offerings.
The earth would soon ripple with tiny waves from a hesitant, wobbling presence. They resembled the ones who placed you here, only smaller, and unleashing an occasional screech that reverberated along the tips of your roots. First came a toddling being with blonde sprouting from its head. After many cycles of the moon, another arrived, whose brown tufts curled like a fading leaf. Like all else who dwelled in your patch, they grew towards the sun. When only saplings, they clawed at your smooth bark, struggling to reach your lowest branches. Only after the earth had swelled with water, then cracked with thirst many times, were they able to reach your canopy. There, like many-legged crawlers, they wriggled along until you trembled beneath their weight. A shriek shattered the air as their grip faltered, and with the grace of an overripe fruit, they fell to the earth. This would not deter them, however. They had faith in your strength; returning each dawn with the warmth of the golden glow, to finally perch upon your limbs.
As the small beings stretched taller than the sun-followers, a new presence entered your domain—a hairy earth-pounder whose excited yelps sent vibrations through soil unlike any being who had entered your patch before. Each dawn it circled your trunk, staining your bark with its acrid scent. When spots of silver glistened in the night sky, the earth-pounder would return, its breath creating warm puffs against your lower trunk as it snuffled for the night dwellers who only emerged under darkness’s protection. The faintest rustle stirred the earth-pounder; its breathing quickened, and it sprang across the soil, tail beating at the air. With the crack of snapped stems, a silence fell.
Beneath the shrub, a rolling-bristle ball was motionless, the air around it tense. The furred watcher lay still, its limbs folded whilst its warmth seeped into the soil. There was no chase, only wonder. A moment passed. Then another. The curled one stirred, unfolding its head, testing the quiet. The watcher stiffened, the hush between them stretching longer. Each exchanged a slow, soft pant. Then – a distant call, the voice of an upright one. The watcher lifted its head, glancing back. The stillness shattered. With a shake of its fur, it leapt to its feet, casting a final glance at the quiet bristled one before dashing away, the tremors of its departure rippling through your roots. The thorn-backed one waited a moment longer, then unspooled itself, scuttling beneath the shrubs towards safety.
Not all would be so fortunate. During the golden glow, many critters scuttled over your roots without disturbing your stillness, their presence masked by the dawn chorus. But under the silver haze, when the hum petered out, their squeaks echoed into the void. These drew a distant hoot near, and when it approached, their reckoning would be swift. Small, sharp claws dug into your bark as they sought refuge too late. A thud surged through your roots as predator claimed prey, talons tore into fur, and with a flap, they vanished. This was the nature of your patch. All that you witnessed grow and prosper could, between heartbeats, meet their demise. Yet you remained through the perpetual cycle of light and dark, life and death, warmth and cold.
When the golden fires weakened and the light thinned, all that once buzzed began to flee. The voices of feathered beings trailed off, as one by one, they beat at the air and disappeared. Bright blooms surrendered to gravity, falling to the soil where silence absorbed their landing. The earth, once vibrant with stirring roots and seeking shoots, slowed into a slumber. Your neighbours soon began to fade, their leaves curling inward before drifting back to the soil. Without a sound, they withered into the web below, leaving only the faintest scent while enriching the cycle of this patch. Unlike the others, you responded differently to the changing signals – thickening your resin and narrowing your vessels as the cold air approached. The return of the rains brought a different rhythm, water droplets hammering against your leaves before sliding down to soak the earth, sending those who scuttle, snuffle and squeak into deeper hiding.
The tapestry of seasons wove itself around you, thread by thread, with you at its unwavering centre. Your rings multiplied, each layer of cells recording the memory of a season past. As your trunk thickened, the upright ones sprouting blonde and brown also stretched skyward, their vibrations deepening, until they too took to the skies, and only on a rare dawn would you sense them again. The rise and fall of those like you: the sun-followers, the fleeting ones, the wall-creepers, and the tangle-weavers – became as predictable as the warming and cooling of seasons. Through countless cycles of growth and dormancy, you stood firm; your roots delving deeper while everything around you transformed. Yet nothing in your patch remained forever.
For countless seasons you resisted disease, fought off the creepers who tunneled through your roots, and endured stout-breasted feathered ones who gorged on your seeds. Then a cool dawn arrived. Your patch stirred from a bitter night. A warm glow beckoned, and your canopy soaked up its beams, creating the shady respite that the ones who planted you here once dreamed of. An unfamiliar tremor came first, then a rumble and roar that sent all around you fleeing. With a stroke, a shock surged from your canopy down to your roots. Each grievous swing severed the intricate pathways that carried nutrients from root to twig. Slice by unerring slice, they struck you limb from limb. Your vessels burst, and the soil that had nurtured you for so long accepted your flowing sap. Shards of light flooded through, pouring a golden glow over the hidden-bloomers and sun-feeders who lurked below.
They cut you down, it is true. But your cycle is not complete. You may have lost your many limbs, but above the soil, your heartwood remains, exposed yet enduring. In the darkness of soil, your roots remain, continuing their silent conversation with the earth. A silent web remains bound to you, providing life in your moment of need. Dormant buds, long hidden beneath your bark, will awaken with the warming days. As the perpetual cycle of sun and moon continues, new shoots will emerge from your stump. Soon after, your leaves will once more bask in the familiar golden glow, and you will seek to fulfil a purpose that endures even when forgotten by those who first imagined it.