We had the pines pushed over. They were unwelcome, having grown from pine cones that had rolled in from next door.
They’d been put in a pile for burning but then burning seemed excessive so they were sifted out and left in a pile for me to interpret.
I cut the roots off them and trimmed the branches off. I would find somewhere for the poles. The root bowls would be trucked up the hill to be used to limit erosion.
These are matter of fact tasks. The farmer is not obliged to interpret actions taken. Actions are purpose driven.
The pine tree grows and the ground beneath it is sterilised, so that no life can grow under its canopy. The pine tree pushes other life forms away, whether from shyness, or determination to overwhelm, or from being driven to become part of a single species forest, to make a family.
Their green is beguiling. Our European eyes glaze over in pine’s company. We are taken away from where we are and where we now belong. The pines will go.
Pictures help to tell a story. This story has one such aid. At the end of the day, I hoisted the decapitated root bowl into the sky to subject it to the opposite to its comfort zone.
To where the sun shines.
Flayed Bowl