Roots and Shoots

I love looking at trees. I love the way their branches all spread out in their own unique way, completely different from even the most similar relative, all taking up space how they feel they ought to. I like to look at the bark, how sometimes it is very rough, or knobbly, or peely or, most sadly, peeled off. I like to think that every tree has its own personality, and its own story to tell, if only we would listen to them.
How can they not have stories to tell? They are so old, some of them, but still so happily living on. They must be so wise. They have seen so much, seen so many changes in the world. The lucky ones get to live in forests, amongst their own kind, seeing new trees come to life and old ones pass on gracefully, naturally, unlike those who live in cities, seeing their brethren murdered ruthlessly to make way for much larger, apparently more productive space-takers. It must be upsetting for those trees, watching all of that death happen, and having nothing to do about it. They see young trees planted in this environment in a vain attempt to make up for the old trees that were taken away, but it is not the same. They must hurt inside. I wish people would listen to the trees; understand their perspective.
Poor trees.