By Olivia Teague
I stood in a forest of pine trees, observing nature in its purest form.
I watched as the little pinecones swayed in the breeze,
the needles falling to the ground, cross-hatching a pattern underneath my feet.
A cardinal flew into a tree, and began to sing.
Soon, this forest would become a development for homes.
The trees would be cut down, their old roots pulled from the soil, and the homes
of animals would disappear.
It made me sad, knowing the trees soon wouldn’t exist.
I wished I could do something about it, but I couldn’t. Corporations don’t care.
All they care about is making money and expanding the next shopping mall.
I’m not really like those people who chain themselves to trees in order to save one forest. Even if the forest is big, and looms above in a way indescribable by someone who has never seen it. Even if the birds chirp sweetly, like a choir. I just couldn’t bring myself to do it. Besides, one person can’t convince money makers to stop production.
Deep in my thoughts about the inescapable sentence of the trees, I didn’t notice someone come up behind me.
My friend calls me back to the picnic.
I turn, put on a smile, and follow her back, the shadows of the damned trees looming behind me. It was almost like they were calling out to me, trying to tell me to help them. But I couldn’t.
I picked up a pinecone off the ground, hoping to use it as a bird feeder.
Maybe that would help in some sense, giving birds some food and a place to stay in the woods near my house.
Maybe.
Post Script Magazine. 