Tree Thoughts

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My branches are the kind that hold a child and a book and a cold glass of lemonade on a summer afternoon. My branches are the kind that pile up snow as parka swathed children build a mighty castle of cold. My branches are the kind that cradle a small frightened child and let him know that everything will be okay. I have had centuries to watch and think for I cannot move or communicate as the human children do. I have watched generations of people grow old and die, I have said to myself many times. “You can grow very old, you tree, and unlike those mortal animals you live through time and know the truth. You can see and hear and think, you are better because you are a tree.” Yet I still find a twinge of jealousy when I witness those animals walk, run and talk; they will never know, what I see, what I think for I cannot tell them no matter how hard I try. Sometimes the little ones with tiny fingers and toes see me and for a second it appears that they see a living, breathing, thinking tree but for when they close their eyes with a sudden blink I am back to wood, bark and leaves. I...

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