In the French village where I live there is a
river that runs through it, plus many century old Plane trees
that grow around it…
Tall, shady and strong.
Trees that have grown alongside the memories of Annie's childhood, and my children's too.
Trees that I have gathered leaves from for Halloween and Thanksgiving decor.
Trees that keep us cool in the summer, and let the light pour in during winter.
Trees that house the night owl,
that have beared witness to the hidden kiss of lovers,
with initials carved in their trunks to prove it.
Yes the river and the trees.
Symbols of running freely and being rooted at the same time.
Soaking in that which is good from both.
How many photos have I taken of the river and trees that surround me?
Not enough.
Not one season overlooks their beauty.
I don't know how many trees there are in my French village.
A couple of hundred or more.
Some are over four hundred years old.
They are called Plane trees, though nothing plain about them.
Nothing.
Bryant alluded when he wrote of the Green River.
But if I were a tree in my village I would be afraid. I would pray with all my might, I would shake my branches wildly, and teach my leaves to scream.
Thirty six trees have been cut down recently, six in the last two weeks.
I cannot bear to take a photo of the aftermath.
Why?
The last six were cut down to widen a small section of the road… by one yard.
Crazy, stupid, reason.
In less than an hour, hundreds of years gone.
It is awful, and I am sad.
If I were a tree in my village I would be afraid.
____
Notes:
Traveling through the history of France.
Photos by Corey Amaro.
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