Amy Beth Sisson

Although I live in a town with streets named Elm and Chestnut, I never thought to outlive so many trees. It's human to fear the quick disaster: the tree falling on the house, or car, or bicycle. An acquaintance used to quip about the killer trees of Swarthmore. It's hard to care for what you fear. It's harder to hold in mind the slowly unfolding disasters; the effects of the emissions from all the energy we've burned and the effects of paving over so much growth.

My neighbors always have a reason for the felling: hemlock beetle, ash borer, fear of tornadoes (which used to be rare around here). My bright pink foam earplugs partially obscure the screech of chainsaws but nothing can block the smell of chipped green wood and diesel. A neighbor said his sycamore was growing too close to the house. Stump ground, spot sodded, the downed tree leaves no trace — except for the glare of sun.

The sugar maple in my yard is slowly dying from choked root. I've had the tree surgeon cut long dead branches to protect my house, but to leave the snag. Some people ask me why I have a dead tree in my yard. If they stopped to watch, they'd see it's full of life. Red-bellied woodpeckers bore holes in the bark to feed on insects. The wood under the bark is inscribed with meandering larva trails that look like an ancient script. These traces are like my own meandering writing.