Trees come and go. The past days have seen the fall of twenty-something neighborhood trees, each reduced to a shaven, quiet stump. (Cuss, city landscaping). The morning birdsongs have been replaced by rigid metallic grinds and the thick drone of chainsaws.
Eulogy No. 1, for the drooping tree with roots that nearly rose of the ground:
“There were so many things a tree could do: add color, provide shade, drop fruit, or become a children’s playground, a whole sky universe to climb and hang from; an architecture of food and pleasure, that was a tree. But most of all the trees would distill an icy air for the lungs, and a gentle rustling for the ear when you lay nights in your snowy bed and were gentled to sleep by the sound.” — Ray Bradbury, The Martian Chronicles
Eulogy No. 2, for the tree that I once attempted to climb:
I never reached the top branch (my arms weren’t long enough, and you knew, and I heard the leaves laughing) but perhaps it was meant to be that way. Thanks for humoring me.
Eulogy No. 3, for the row of towering giants above the sidewalk:
The birds will miss you, too.
Postscript: in brighter news, the Welcome to Night Vale novel is out! Dying to get my hands on a copy. Literally, dying. We’re all dying. This would probably sound better with Cecil’s voice.