Diary of a Tree

April 7, 2010

I awoke from my nightly sleep as the sun peeked from behind the eastern hills. The red, orange rays illuminated all that it touched, contrasting with the long dark shadows that were cast everywhere. The morning was my favorite time of the day; the gentle rays thawed off the the frost that formed on my twisted branches and warmed the chilly air. It was a nice respite from the coldness of the desert nights and a brief calm before the coming of the scorching midday sun.

I shook and stretched my twisted branches. It was going to be another long hot day, and I prepared by diligently digging my roots deeper into the soil for water. For the last few months I could feel the gentle vibrations of a deep underground river steadily flowing nearby. I had a feeling that today might be the day that I could finally taste that fresh steam of luxuriant flow. Perhaps I would be able to bear fruit with that extra water.

Even though I have been fully grown for quite some time, I have been thus far unable to produce any fruit. This wasn’t for lack of trying on my part though; I was just planted out in nowhere, with no one to look after me. Sure, being planted by a road meant I had many visitors coming by to rest in the what little shade I provided, but none of them did as much as to trim my branches or offer me an extra bit of water. Don’t get me wrong, I enjoyed having all these visitors and I understood that water was a precious commodity that few could afford to part with, but these were plenty of valid reasons for my fruitlessness. All these excuses would soon become irrelevant anyway; soon I will tap into that river and have more than enough water to bear as much fruit as my strong branches could hold.

My morning routine, besides stretching upwards and downwards, also consisted of looking for rain clouds. See, clouds sometimes meant rain, and rain sometimes meant more water, depending on what type of rain it was. There were really two types of rain that trees such as myself really thought about: the rain that drizzled suddenly and lasted only a few seconds, and the rain that poured on for hours. The first type, the drizzle, never provided any water. The afternoon sun would just as quickly evaporate any water as soon as it reached the ground. The second type, the outpour, was what I longed for. It meant more than enough water to take up for the moment, and an opportunity to dig into the the soaked, softened soil. I looked up and saw near the horizon of the western sky, still half covered in the gray of the fleeting night, the silvery outlines of rain clouds. It was a promising sign of an on-coming outpour.

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