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Writer's pictureCrone

Primal Crone

I sawed down a tree THIS big - I mean, it was really big! trunk the diameter of a side plate. And another with a trunk the diameter of a saucer and about ten others that were just little.


Here's me, remember the posts of the pasts, oh an oak tree does more good to the world than any darn human there's ever been. Including Anna Sewell. (Black Beauty changed things for horses.) Trees have an interest in living. Look how they suck up water and nutrients. See what they do with sunlight. They make OXYGEN, for earth's sake!


And yet, the feeling of a tree falling and the way the the horizon is cleared. That was me, I changed the goddam landscape! I shaped the world! Me and my bow saw!


It's a strange feeling. That urge, once you've cut one, to clear the rest of the line... It's odd. That satisfaction at seeing further...


Now, I know we are doing this for a purpose. Namely to preserve the reed beds. There are few reed bad habitats, while willow is abundant. the reed beds ensure a habitat for those who rely on reed beds. I don't know who they are. Fauna and flora, I assume. The willows dry out the marsh, the reeds die back, the willow pushes forward and low and behold you have... scrub? Which might become woodland?


But then, what about all those people telling me to plant a tree? I've paid to plant tree... and for free I have cut them down.


It's confusing. And then, like the Templars, they are burned.


Still, I found myself, walking along, thinking, what are bodies for if not to carry wood?


Another odd thing today. Jan and I had trailblazed... set off with a prodding stick into virgin marsh to reach this line of willows well away from the hive of activity by a copse and a clearing (cleared by the officers and volunteers in the previous two days) where the fire was burning. Once we got to this back of beyond place, we sawed and lopped for some time before dragging a load of wood back to base. The reeds are so tall that you can't see people unless they are in front of you on the paths we had made. We were the intrepid explorers dragging booty back to camp. And as we entered the clearing... this odd feeling of being 'back'. Of this being 'our territory'. It was like going back to the town where you were born. And yet it was just a muddy clearing in the reeds. And, once in that safe place, suddenly, one realises that there are all these other people there and the ground's muddy and churned up, not pristine and reedy, and all one wants is to go back out into the unknown.


To face the dragons.

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