There must have been a time.

There must have been a time when everyone had seen a great tree taken down.

There must have been a time when everyone knew, they'd be cutting down the big tree on Main Street. And everyone would know the reasons why, and think on their memories, and when the time came a little crowd would gather-- the children, especially-- to wait and watch it fall.

A time when everyone had done their time at the side of a dying man or woman or child. When death and desctruction were personal. When there was time to make time.

Now I sit in my apartment and frantically try to hide from the deaths of trees I've known for years, try to think of how to pack up what work and where to go, too much to do to spend the day weeping and letting go.

It's the same denial I've seen turned toward human death. The same helplessness. The same turning away.