i'm still reading the overstory, near done. my brain slows as i go and it's not so so compelling, not a great art but good ideas and all connected like rhizomes and fungus 
and sweet dirt.  
a lot of accidents befall the characters, trees and people, a lot of deliberate harm, people go mute, turn into other beings, die suddenly. i have been wondering who would write the moby dick of today, sort of an existential meditation on the sixth extinction, maybe it's too vast, but wouldn't it be marvelous to see what melville would do. a whale of a tale. 
(i just had a flash of the whale tail i held while a scientist from woods hole injected the blue fatal flow syringe and the little orca flipped me backwards and spun her final circle.) well, this isn't quite the book i imagined, but it makes me think of other tales waiting writing, and trees, i think of trees, the genius of trees, and the tragedy of trees, cut down, their medicine wasted, their bodies divided for human boxes and pyres and platforms, police blockades, skeleton rooms. and this morning i come upon this piece, thrown out as a bulwark against the inland sea, a tree that engulphed and crushed a cement parking bumper and never let go, even after being hacked off at the trunk.