reading richard powers' book, the overstory, on the lives of people and trees, of the mysterious entwinement, i thought, people of the capitalistic tribe, knowing trees might naturally outlive them by hundreds of years, 

something in our weak species, wanting power, offended by the very idea of being outlasted, cuts them down. humans burn as they go. one after another. they burn. 
i remember illegally planting seedlings on golden mountain on vancouver island, driving up the vista corridor, the beauty strip, a thin screen of old trees barely concealing the devastated land. i remember the desperate animals, the crying grouse, the terror struck raven stealing our lunch. i remember the pennies for poor folks, illegals like me, for trees that would mostly die, the survivors that grew product for the same ruthless companies, a grim harvest of lives.