For man is a tree of the field.
I walked away from my apartment, in the predawn darkness. I could pat myself on the back, because I had watered the plants every day, encouraging abundant growth where birds could nest, gather, and find food.
I could see them fluttering from one tree to another. They brought life into the somber forest of oak, pine, and fir trees.
They had accompanied me, twittering and fluttering, to my solitary perch in the forest of the valley. This is my real home. If only I could stay here forever, like one of those tall noble pointy pine trees.
Trees grow and their trunks become thick and tall. Branches stretch out, reaching for the light, which they gulp and swallow, bringing vital light deep into the earth, so that roots are nourished and acquire energy to suck up the minerals.
A bear releases a pile of black dung, created in the depths of his bowls to enrich the earth with nourishing minerals, that the roots of the tree will devour, hungrily.
The light from above and the earth with minerals join hands and the tree grows and more trees grow and the forest grows, and life creeps in to be nourished and to nourish. Everything comes from above.
The forest is a place of refuge. Creatures come here for protection. Enemies fear to tread here. It’s darkness breeds scary legends of bears and fearsome mystical creatures.
Here the wicked queen ordered the woodsman to take Snow White, here lie sleeping beauty and the handsome prince, who will awake to save the world.
The wooden seat under me, my elbows resting on the stone table, the birds, even the ravens squawk for me to stay.
But I am a man and, as the poet says: “For a man is a tree of the field”, and must struggle for existence, not a tree of the forest, that grows without struggle.