This is how we writers start: Tiny figures hunched at the bottom of metaphorical Giant Redwood trees. We can crane our necks up until the bones creak and crack – and still not see the top – and the girth of the tree makes walking round it both arduous and long.
But, if we lie on our backs and relax, we are able, finally, to see the vast trunks narrowing and, through them, the spears of welcome sunlight striking the green sward.
All around us, under our tree and its companions, are other tiny figures, all trying to work out the best, quickest, safest way to get to the top.
The tree continues its arboreal existence. It cares nothing for our puny humanity and brittle hopes. Its breaths are gigantic and slow; its heartbeat pumps millions of gallons of sap into the vessels; its cycle of life disregards our needs.
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