To fell a tree with a felling axe is an exertion without parallel as the blade sweeps into the tree's trunk, sending shudders with a thud that at the start do not disturb that living thing's equanimity.
Barely does it move, and unperturbed it stands, but each succeeding blow removes a little of its strength.
I aim each stroke with care, and sometimes land a cut that sends a wedge of wood hurtling through the air, while next the axe head's stuck, or leaves but just a crease.
With sweat now running down my face, the gash I've hacked is widening, and deeper in it goes, and now that tree, so mighty, begins to sway just slightly, each succeeding judder greater than the last. Faster I heave the blade into the shelving wood, the crescendo demanding my utmost strength until...the final, fatal stroke that sends the tree falling in a mist of leaves and a cracking, splintering cataclysmic climax of destruction.
Ah! The primordial sensation of a triumph wrought by muscle!
Yes, that was me you saw do that.
And tenderly I set the sappling in the ground, tread the soil firmly to help its roots take hold, and in the coming weeks and months ensure the moisture's right.
The shoots in spring, the leaves in summer as year by year my tree grows masterful and mightier - that glorious living thing, against whose life I am but dust; against whose worth I am a parasite
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