They’re chipping wood at the bottom of the hill. I can smell tree meat; it smells good and now I feel guilty.

Because look what I’ve done. Inconvenient branches, sawed, blitzed. A beautiful form, destroyed.

But maybe…

Tree branches, to chips, to mulch, to rot, to soil – to trees?

(Humans, to corpses, to coffins, to rot, to soil – to the world?)

When is a tree dead and when is it alive?

What if a tree is just the world in tree-form?