Looking at death straight in the eyes
I once stared at death straight in the eyes in a place I’d never imagined. My first impression of it was its luring beauty mixed with finality. I stood in its domain only briefly, in a forest that had been clearcut a few afternoons ago. It was a special forest since it had seen me grow when I was a toddler.
The tall near-century old spruces and firs that looked over me were now felled, lying silent and cut in logs, immobile and ready to be sent to the paper mill. There they were, so still and having lost their ability to stand upright. The smell of death abounded as the trees bled resin.
Some of these trees may have taken about a century to grow but were felled in a matter of seconds by a harvester.
What a pity!