The Secret Life of Trees

Pine Trees

-          What’s the X for?
-          Don’t know, some mankind sprayed it on me last week.
-          Oh. Strange things those mankinds.
-          You’re tellin’ me.
  The two pine trees stood together in amiable silence for a time, before curiosity got the better of one. He just had to ask.
-          Well, why’ve you got a mankind chained to you then?
-          I’m a bit embarrassed about that…
-          Oh sorry. I just thought it was some kind of new fashion thing. No offense meant.
-          None taken, none taken. It just turned up a few days after the X. Quite unsightly really.
-          I wouldn’t say that. Hardly noticeable actually. Sorry to bring it up.
  The silence returned, but this time the amiability had some rather uncomfortable edges. Pines are quite sensitive trees.
-          Do you think I could get it removed?
  The other pine regarded the mankind in question.
-          To be honest, it doesn’t look like it would go easily.
  There was a distinctive dip in the general ambience of the forest. Even the mushrooms looked a little greyer.
  A Robin tried to lift the mood with a burst of song. It gave up when the mankind began clapping its hands together and singing a song about something called a ‘whale’, that was apparently in trouble. It was a thin mankind, needed a good prune, especially round the chin.
-          How embarrassing…
  The other pine really didn’t know what to say. It spent the rest of the day standing around feeling very awkward.
  The next morning brought with it a beautiful new sun over the horizon. The Robin took the opportunity to belt out a few tunes, none of which had anything whatsoever to do with whales.
-          Ahhh!
-          What? What?
  The other pine was always a late riser.
-          There’s another one!
  Next to the scruffy mankind was an equally scruffy mankind.
-          Is that one female?
-          I don’t know, it’s so hard to tell those things apart.
  The other pine searched for the right words.
-          I…
-          It’s ok. I’ve come to terms with it.
-          But… I just wish I could…
  The words trailed off into silence. Well that is, silence besides the hand clapping and duets about whales.
  It got worse overnight. The next morning there were three more. The noise got so bad, the Robin packed up nest and left.
  The mankind stricken pine wasn’t looking at all well.
-          I’m really sorry about all this.
-          Hey, cut that out, there’s no problem.
  Later that day it all came to an end. More and more mankinds gathered round the unfortunate pine, some sat up on its branches. Then even more came, all dressed in yellow, pulling and cutting away the scruffy ones. By nightfall all that was left was a stump.
  The Robin returned in the spring. Things had been quiet for a while. It built its nest high up in the branches and started filling the brisk morning air with song again.
  One morning a scruffy mankind entered the forest. It looked at the old stump with moisture in its eyes, turned to the other pine and gently wrapped its arms around its trunk.
-          Oh no! I’ve caught it!

Orange Trees

-          “Hi guys, how’s things?”
  Two orange trees stood stock still.
-          “Hey!”
  A stiff breeze whistled through the orchard. Not a leaf stirred on the two trees
-          “Down here guys!”
  An orange laden trunk bent a little with the wind. The other one rustled its leaves.
-          Ignore it.
-          What is—?
-          Just ignore it.
  The breeze died down. There was silence for a while before the little voice piped up again.
-          “Well, that’s just rude, ignoring me like that! A fellow tree should be—”
-          You’re not a tree.
  There was shocked silence while the little voice huddled together its next batch of high pitched words. Once gathered, they shot out in rapid succession.
-          “Of course I’m a tree! Just look at my branch—”
-          You’re not a tree.
-          “I’m a tree! I just… I just have some growing to do.”
-          You’re not a tree.
-          “Then what do you call—”
-          You’re a carrot.
  The little voice quiet down for a while to work on its next sentence. The orange trees relaxed, thinking that was the end of it.
-          Wish they’d hurry up with the harvest.
-          Yes, I’m feeling a bit heavy myself.
-          I think we’ve done quite well this year.
-          Oh of course, none of this juice business.
-          No, no, table fruit all the w—
-          “I’m a sapling.”
  If trees could sigh, there would have been two very deep sighs. Seeing as they can’t there wasn’t. But there should have been.
-          You’re a carrot.
-          “Ok, I’m a shrub.”
-          You’re a carrot.
-          “Bush!”
-          You’re a carrot.
-          “Flower!”
-          You’re a carrot.
  Silence returned for a time. Then inevitably it was broken by a high pitched voice.
-          “Oh this is ridiculous! Anyone can see I’m a tree.”
-          You’re a carrot.
-          “I have branches; though small. And I have leaves.”
-          You also have a big orange thing sticking in the dirt.
-          “That’s my root! I’m very well endowed.”
-          Look a rabbit’s chewing on you.
-          “Ahh! Get away!”
  The orange trees chuckled to themselves, branches shaking. A few loose oranges thumped on the ground.
-          Look, here come the pickers.
-          Ah, finally.
  An hour later, six crates of oranges were stacked on the grass, and two much lighter trees stretched out their branches in relief.
-          That feels better.
-          You said it.
-          I could do with a prune.
-          And some insecticide would be nice.
  There was a distinct lack of something.
-          Is that carrot still there?
-          I don’t hear it.
  Shortly after, the tractor came and carted the crates away.
-          There go some good quality oranges.
-          Absooolutely.
  Meanwhile, a few rows away, a picker, halfway up a ladder, pulled something from his pocket. He brushed the dirt off with his hand.
-          “You’re making a huge mistake! I’m not what you think I am! Your boss will kill you when he finds out! I’ll give you tummy ache! I’m telling you, I’m a—”
  Crunch!

Apple Trees

A poet sat beneath an apple tree, enjoying its quiet company.
I sit beneath an apple tree
Enjoying its quiet company
  There was a pause. A fair amount of pencil nibbling, then inspiration returned.
Me and the tree
As happy as can be
  An apple whizzed past his ear and thumped into the ground.
The shade of that tree
Rested gently on...
  Another apple on a very high branch swung menacingly.
...Rested gently on… me!
  It dropped, missing a kneecap by a millimeter.
And I rested on the tree
Both as happy as can be
  A barrel full of apples rained on the poet's soft head. The poet, having a sudden inspiration, as well as many bruises, wondered how he could work the word ‘gravity’ into the poem.

Coconut Trees

  The horizon was flat. Well, mostly flat. Somewhere in the middle a small lump of sand poked up out of the ocean. Two coconut trees were silhouetted by a sunset. It was the kind of scene where reggae music would not have been out of place.
-          Groovy sunset.
  A long though not uncomfortable silence passed between them.
-          Totally man.
  A small wave arrived at the beach, and trailed along the sand.
-          I like the color.
  The sun dropped behind the horizon and began making its way underneath to the opposite side.
-          Yeah.
  Fast paced conversations like this were quite uncommon on the island, where life moved at snail pace. There weren’t in fact snails on the island, just two trees and lots of sand. So to say life moved at snails pace really had no point of reference. Let’s just say it moved at sand pace, which incidentally just sat there.
  Sunrise happened here just like anywhere else, but it was more of a myth than an actual event seeing neither of the trees had ever seen one. They usually stirred around noon when the sun began its downward path towards sunset.
-          Mornin’ bro.
  Despite the evidence. It was evening before a reply came.
-          Sleep well?
  The sun set. Neither tree commented on this as they were already in conversation on another topic. The world went dark, sunrise happened miraculously, and noon ticked over.
-          Like a baby.
  After the exhausting exchange they decided to have an afternoon nap.

Hedge Trees

  The most hated human in the garden was the gardener. Oh, he was alright when pushing a barrow of manure, turning the sprinklers on, or fiddling around with the compost heap. But when he walked out of the shed with a hedge trimmer…
  A tall spiral shaped thing spoke to the giraffe standing next to it.
-          I think it might rain later in the day.
-          Hmmph!
-          Definitely a cloud formation happening up there.
-          …
-          Might even hail if we’re lucky.
-          Pfft!
  Hail kept the gardener in his shed, where he belonged.
-          Well, definitely rain at least.
  A ladder rested up against the giraffe. A wayward branch kept striking out at the rungs, but to no avail. The snipping noises eventually wound down.
  “Ah,” the gardener said, full of self satisfaction. “Perfect!”
  The other trees piped up as the gardener wandered off carrying his ladder, with those poked under one arm.
-          Hey, you look really good!
-          Giraffe actually suits you.
-          Not as bad as you think.
-          I like what he did with the tail.
-          Could be worse.
  There was an awkward silence, which a large duck filled with deeply serious tones.
-          The important thing is, you’ll grow.
  It then began shaking uncontrollably and sobbing.

Palm Trees

-          Hi, nice to meet you.
-          …
  “Oh brilliant!” said a mankind. “Put it there in the corner.”
-          I said: Hi, how are you?
-          …
  Wheels squeaked as the palm was pushed across the carpet.
-          You deaf? HELLO!
-           …
  “You can take out that old plastic one too.”
-          Jerk!
-          …
  The palm sat in the corner quietly, getting used to its new home. The mankind seemed very happy with the company. After a while it got up and walked over.
  “Thirsty feller?”
-          Well a refreshing drop of dew would be quite— Blub…Gasp!…Blub…
  A final drop fell from the upended watering can and sent a ripple through the puddle of water in the pot.
  “How bout some fresh air?”
-          Glub…
  There was a click, and a burst of air shot out of the ceiling. Big shiny leaves flattened in the down draft.
-          T-u-r-n - i-t - o-f-f - p-l-e-a-s-e-!
  A better word choice than ‘fresh’ could have been made, perhaps ‘stagnant’ might have been more fitting.
  “Ok, better get back to work,” the mankind said. “This novel won’t write itself.”
  He left the palm in the corner to acclimatize. It’s difficult acclimatizing to being drowned and flattened by a hurricane, but the palm did its best.
  There was a tap, tap, tapping coming from the mankind. “Dammit!” he said. A winding noise, then a scrunching up noise, then something flew through the air towards a bin. It missed and rolled across the strange cream grass to the palm.
-          Funny things these mankinds.
  It dipped a windswept branch in curiosity. The scrunched up thing looked oddly familiar…
-          Oh dear.
  There was a gasp of carbon dioxide. The mankind looked briefly up at the hurricane machine, shrugged.
  Another scrunched up thing flew threw the air. “C’mon man, think!” It landed in the bin this time, on a pile of other scrunched up things.
  Then the palm saw the pile of crisp un-scrunched up scrunched up things.
-          Ahh!
  Then it noticed what the un-scrunched up scrunched up things lay on. A dead redwood pine chopped up and stuck back together again… badly!
-          Ahhhh!
  “Yeah, now I’m getting somewhere!” The mankind tapped away, smearing information on thin slices of dead trees.
  A few days later wheels squeaked as a brown palm was pushed out of the office. Its branches were stiff and leaves shriveled. A plastic palm replaced it, which felt much more at home.

Fig Trees

  Moss covered roots sprawled over a rock. Some wove through cracks and crevices to the moist soil beneath. The knots and twists of the trunk rose up to a busy intersection of branches stretching out to hold a thick canopy of leaves.
  A smaller fig, barely trunk high, looked up at the older tree. It wobbled a little in doing so, its tiny roots grabbing onto shallow soil to steady itself.
  The larger of the two spoke, its tones rich like a vein of diatomaceous.
-          A wise man once said: ‘If a tree falls in the forest and no one is around to hear it. Does it make any sound?’
  The little tree almost jumped out of the ground with excitement.
-          Ooh! Ooh! I know this one!
  The larger tree waited patiently. It’s patience deep as its root system.
-          Like when old uncle Kifu fell over in that wind storm last week, he made a sound like; ‘Ahhhh! Help! Someone help me! Ahhhh!...’
  On second thought, its root system wasn’t all that deep.
-          …And then there was this big ‘CRASH!’ and he said; ‘Argh! I think I’ve snapped a branch.’ And then he—
-          No.
  The entire diatomaceous deposit was drained with that single word.
-          But he—
-          No, that’s not the answer.
  The little tree gently swung back and forth, it tried hard to hold back a giggle picturing old uncle Kifu lying there with all his roots hanging up in the—
-          The answer is no.
  There was a short silence. The little tree stopped swinging.
-          So… Is that no that’s not the answer, or no, no is the answer, or no, no is not the answer, or—
  Philosophy is all and well, but sometimes its principle logic gets lost along the way.
-          The answer is; it doesn’t make any sound.
  The little tree swung again slightly.
-          But what about old uncle—
-          Yes what about old uncle Kifu?
  Said old uncle Kifu.
-          I seem to remember I made a right ruckus when I took that tumble.
  Uncle Kifu was strapped to a pole, one of his left branches carefully grafted back on with a strip of cloth. Both he and the little fig looked expectantly at the larger fig, who having exhausted the diatomaceous, injected his tone with a good shovelful of gravel.
-          Oh I don’t know, just some saying I picked up from the master.
  He shrugged, in a rustling manner.
  A gate creaked and soft footsteps crossed the Zen garden, they gently tapped over the Khoi pond bridge. A man approached with a shovel, rake, shears, leaf trimmer, pliers, root hooker, pick, broom, watering can and wire clipper, all in the palm of his hand.
  He knelt down to uncle Kifu and examined the broken branch.
  “Ah,” he said, gently adjusting the bandage. “Getting much better I see, that was a close call.”
  Loving old fingers tickled the leaves of the small tree. “And you little one, growing so fast! I hardly recognize you. But don’t grow too big, ok?” He grinned, familiar wrinkles etched into his features.
  “And you Socrates,” sorting through his toolkit. “You will always be my favorite.”
  A miniature pair of leaf trimmers carefully snipped away at the tree tops.