The old tree was standing on a hill. The wind went through it’s leaves, the birds jumped around on it’s branches, there were insects piercing into it’s 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 it’s 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 it’s 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 was not 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.