breathing hard
leaving puffs of vapour in the frosty morning air
the tree climber heaves himself up to surmount the tree
finally.
branches groaning under his weight
he stills himself to quiet it's sway
looking downward he checks the tree for warps and rot
"looks good" he mumbles to himself
off to his left a bird nest, abandoned for the season
are all that is left of a family of Robins
hands busy now, he hauls the saw to his side
hand
over
hand
over
hand
over
hand
steady and slow, the rhythm almost sleep inducing
there, now he's ready to start his day's work
work
if you could call it that
god he thrived on thin air and pitch it seems
the cold never even touches him
work
if you could call shaping a monstrous tree
into a piece of art work
work
if you could call saving a tree from itself and mother nature
work
funny how early this morning
when he first touched this behemoth
he felt the sickness these branches hid
funny how each day as he touches a new tree
the feelings grow sharper, more palpable
funny how people looked at him strangely at times
and called him "the man who talks to trees"
but it was as if he had learned the secret language of the trees
for he knew their need before he ever climbed a branch
and he cherished that gift like a priceless treasure
day's end now
weary, he descends from the heights
to go gratefully home to his waiting family
but first
he places his hands on the ancient bark once more
and he finds, as he suspected, only health there now
satisfied
he smiles
and calls it a day
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