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.
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?