Birth to Death (survivor challenge #7)

Birth to Death A single pollen grain lands gently on the receptive stamen. It has traversed hundreds of miles, borne on the West Wind. The gametes merge into one, and the succulent fruit develops around the dormant seed. At last, a scavenging crow plucks the ripe fruit and carries it off to its nest. Ripped apart and eaten, the seed remains in the dark - but now warm within the nestling. Digestive juices soften the hard shell, and the seed is finally expelled. Over the side of the nest, it falls. Relentless gravity draws it down, and it comes to rest in a nest of its own. Time is the seed's friend, and rain's moisture blends with the warmth of the summer sun. A root emerges and follows gravity's urging, downward. Sand and earth are moved aside in the quest for more moisture. And, Lo! A stem grows skyward - its infant leaves spreading out to capture the sun's photons. The sapling stakes its claim on this unique spot of ground. In years it grows tall and straight. Shade for sensitive shrubs, home for small animals and birds. Lightning strikes it once, leaving a long, dark scar in its bark, but it survives. It is surrounded by its friends, and soon makes flowers of its own in preparation for the next generation. But one day a different animal, one with only two legs, visits the tall, stately tree. With a can of spray paint he marks an X on the tree's bole. What does this signify? The squirrel does not know, nor does the friendly kestrel. The tree waits - it is long on patience. The man returns with his companions, and a horrifying noise starts up. Searing pain, never before felt, cuts deep into the tree's trunk. It screams as loudly as it can, but only its friends can hear it. Dizzy, it begins to fall - gravity once again the active force. Removed from its roots, but still alive, all its branches are summarily amputated. Rootless, branchless - nothing more than a log, it is piled onto a truck - cordwood corpses. Slowly dying, still not understanding, it finally arrives at the mill. Its last bit of consciousness fades as it becomes pulp in the gigantic grinders. "Paper, mister?" the boy asks, and waves the Wall Street Journal at the passing businessman. 4/5/2002 Written April 5th, 2002 © on Apr 04 2002 07:11 PM PST, Heinz Scheuenstuhl    0 • 10