I've been here for thousands of years. I've never moved from this
spot. I was born here, and I will die here. I stand watch over the
valley below me. I've watched the wind and the wolves, the goose and
the fox, but they have paid me no notice. Birds have taken shelter in
my outstreched arms. Squirrles take my fruit and stash it in the folds
and cracks of my skin, waiting for the snows to come again.
I've seen fires, big and small. My body is scorched and scarred
with the most recent. I remember the searing of my skin, the boiling
of my blood, the pain as I was being singed away. But I have survived,
and I am strong still. I do not rot; fall slows my blood, and I weather
the cold, and when spring comes again I awaken, and can grow once
more.
I've seen small ones come and go. Too many times; too often. They
are sowed by the wind, the fruit of others, and where they come to
rest on the ground they are born, and take root. Some last but a few
days, not even enough time to take root. Other last a few years or
more, then die, ravengened by wind, rain or fire. Some are culled,
giving their lives for others, some die starved for sun or water. But I
have survived here.
Once the mountains settled, I was born, put to wait, watch, and
grow. A rail line and a highway cut through the valley
below. Wilderness is falling back under the onslought on Man. Forward
they push, always fighting for more, and the shrill cry of the wind
through the mountain peaks sounds retreat, retreat. Clearcuts approach
now, my time is short. Ski Resorts and golf courses intrude. Migration
paths are limited, the Elk and the Bear cannot get home for winter.
Death now, brought by sharpened links of chain. Fire, wind, water,
and earth, those which give us life, sustain us, and destory
us. Nature has her days, but nothing so far has stopped the onslaught
of Man.