The arborist has determined: senescence beetles canker quickened by drought but in any case not prunable not treatable not to be propped.
And so.
The branch from which the sharp-shinned hawks and their mate-cries.
The trunk where the ant.
The red squirrels’ eighty-foot playground.
The bark cambium pine-sap cluster of needles.
The Japanese patterns the ink-net.
The dapple on certain fish.
Today, for some, a universe will vanish. First noisily, then just another silence.
The silence of after, once the theater has emptied.
Of bewilderment after the glacier, the species, the star.
Something else, in the scale of quickening things, will replace it,
this hole of light in the light, the puzzled birds swerving around it.
— Jane Hirshfield via Brain Pickings
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