i think of tree stumps. what is that feeling when a tree is cut and it's rings are revealed. a dead stump starts to grow. how does that feel. we're not trees but we feel them. we're interdependent. our roots are the same, seeing in the dark. i stayed a little time on the stump farm, a sad place in the forest a man caused, to make space, to grow other things than the ones who lived there. yet the man was gone, and still it was called the stump farm.  around the stumps was ancient moss, and under the moss were petroglyphs made by people in the forest before the stumps.
i think of the redwood map of time in vertigo. i was alive here. i think of the way stumps weep. 
i read in r.'s book, i can't sleep, the hidden life of trees. i go back to wooded isle, that sorely stewarded place, in pictures, to this.

a tree growing from a fallen tree. i think of friendship by generation. of interdependence over time and destruction. how death becomes life. i think of all those orange x's on the trees marked for death, and i think of the orange roots newly established, clinging to the upturned root clump, continuing life.