What the trees think of us

I like to wonder what the trees think of us.  They stand through frosts and heat waves, catching the first light of morning and the last reflected rays of evening, day after day after day.  Many of them were planted when I was still a kid, oblivious to their existence and instead picking little Italian plums from my front yard in the summer.  Even the youngest trees in the orchard have known the farm longer than I have.  They came from various nurseries, grafted by nimble hands to make whole two disjointed halves.  Since they were planted, they have known only one spot on this planet.  They've watched the world go by.

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