Along one of the surburban streets where I regularly walk, there is a garden wherein stood a wonderful pine tree.
Sunday it was there, but this morning it was not. It was a handsome tree, of what variety, I am not sure. Its cones were small and compact, its needles of the deepest green, such that gazing up into its heights was akin to looking into a mysteriously dark cocoon. A pair of wood pigeons nested on the topmost branches. My daughter and I admired this tree, which must have been around fifty years of age judging by the girth of the trunk. The regularity of its branches suggested its supreme suitability for the siting of a tree-house, and we discussed the theoretical possibilities for the construction thereof, and spoke of our desire to have such a tree in our garden. Now alas, it is gone, so totally that I had to look twice to assure myself of its demise, which was revealed by the footprint of its trunk sawn off precisely at ground level. A few pine-needles scattered the verge nearby, evidencing to the tree-surgeons precise butchery.
There was probably a sound reason why the land-owners has this tree removed - the ingress of roots into the house's foundations, the obscuration of light, but I mourn this tree's death. It was wonderful of its type, and I feel sad that it's gone. I feel the dryad's shudder at the touch of the chainsaw.