There’s a saying I’ve heard people use from time to time. I’m fairly certain it’s a metaphor to them. I’m a bit confused on its meaning.
“He can’t see the forests for the trees.”
From my standpoint, and the standpoint of others of my kind, humans don’t see the trees either. Well, I guess that is unless they’re destroying us, either intentionally in their thirst for more development or more paper or more logs, or through negligence or ignorance or utter disregard for the plight of any other living thing on earth.
I see them all, of course. The small and shrieking-loud little children over there. The older people over that way. The young man staring intently at a computer or a book or a notebook. He did see me the other day. That was when that quite annoying flock of morning doves took roost way up here. No, this way. Now you got it.
I’m sensationalizing the event because it wasn’t me he was seeing. It was those damn birds. Honestly, I was just the vehicle for the birds. I was background. I was a prop.
But I am more than that, of course, and my trifling about a lack of respect or notice from humans gives the impression that they are important. They are decidedly not, of course. They’re just pests, quite like those birds, to be honest.
I am 123 years old. I have seen changes in my life, and I expect to see plenty more changes in the coming years. I’m counting on it. When I was growing up, there were so many more of us. But orange mark by orange mark, we were disappeared. We’d all heard about the people and how they killed so many of us, but that was far away from here. Here, we would be safe. They sure couldn’t take out whole hillsides.
Here I go again, giving more power to humans.
That’s all in the past now. We’re all enlightened enough to let it go. Or at least, we’re all supposed to be. I’ve been working on it, trying to achieve that peaceful acceptance, but my thoughts wander back in time, when I was at my hardiness, when I was surrounded by love and kinship, before the orange marks.
It was half a lifetime ago, but the wrenching heartache of watching one after the other after the other fall remains. Duller, yes. All grief deadens with time.