The Cedar Tree

The cedar towered above the shingled roof, Its tapered branches hiding squirrels and birds until the day when Hugo swept the hills uprooting poplars, whipping wind-wilted leaves against the parlor window. The cedar fell, its prodigious bulk flattened against the sodden earth. For years it lay along the gravel drive. The neighbor though we ought to cut the cedar into pieces--use the oval slabs for stepping stones or perhaps for firewood. The gard'ner groaned and said it was a nuisance. One summer day we thought to drag it off to slice away the limbs, the falling needles. But the honeysuckle had wound around the trunk as if to say how much it was not in the way. A chameleon slithered, dark against the trunk, a ground sparrow squawked and fluttered in alarm while chipmunks hurried to guard a nut-filled hole. We put the chain-saw in the shed and planted flowers in the tangled roots. A cedar tree, after all, is indestructible...