The old tree was standing on a hill. The wind went through it’s leaves, the birds jumped around on its branches, there were insects piercing into its trunk. It didn’t care. It was just the way things were. It had water. Earth. Sun. It was all it ever needed.
On the hill it had been standing all its life, as natural was. It was part of the hill, and almost as big under ground as over ground. Under ground sometimes a little creature touched its roots. Sometimes some worm dug into them. It didn’t care. It was all part of being a tree.
Today a man came along. He was measuring it’s trunk. Looking at it. He even made a cross in it’s skin. It didn’t hurt. Things didn’t really hurt when you’re a tree. It was good being a tree.
The next day the man came back. He cut the tree down. It didn’t really hurt either, but it wasn’t good. It was not good at all. When the man pulled up the root, cut it into pieces and carried it all away, the tree’s life was over for ever.