Leaves Ring Like Bells

A silent sentinel, he stood in the orchard, two hundred years and more. The world passed by, swift swirls of green, blue and umber. Only yesterday, or so it seemed, he was a tiny sapling. Dug up and transplanted on a new continent, small roots grew strong and shot towards the warming sun.

He was home to many creatures, holding them in birth and at their deaths. Bones and birthing fluids fed him during the bitter, cold times. When the world warmed, he rejoiced in a burst of leaves so thick they shaded the ground beneath him, keeping the rich earth around his roots cool. He grew strong with each passing season, watching as weaker brothers crumbled and fell. Moans of grief echoed through the valley mixing with the cries of others of his kind.

Every warming season, men would gather round him in celebration. Young ones would dance, ropes of his small kin woven into their tresses. Man's music carried on the wind, sending vibrations through every ring. He sang with them, creaking and groaning his own joyous song. As dusk fell, they burned his fallen brethren, dancing while the fire consumed.

Year upon year, he witnessed the influx of man, taking over every space until there was little room left for his kind. His brothers screamed in agony as they were cut down by vicious blades, then carried off to build shelter for their murderers. He grew sad and lonely as those he had grown up with were killed. Each night when the wind blew softly, he wept, leaves ringing like bells in the sheltering darkness.

Finally, the day came when he too was cut down. He shivered as the blade cut deep, his sap pouring into the ground. Leaves shook and branches split with each jarring tear. He begged the men to stop, but they had no understanding. They did not see him as a being, special and unique. He fell like many of his kin. That night young trees cried, leaves ringing like bells, a death knell for all.