The utility pole that catches my consideration breastfed no long lasting aspiration to broadcast communications significance. It was at one time a Douglas fir towering about 80 feet over the woodland floor. Its trunk influences tenderly as the winds disregard its mountainside. It's awesome arms, dressed with progressive layers of green foliage, shade the understory plants
However one day the sound of a bulldozer irritates its mountain quickness. The whimper of cutting apparatuses sends a chill through the trees, and they fall one by one, grain for the factory downstream. Rrrrrr. Cutting tools cut off every appendage that juts, and forceful jaws lift the monster amputee on board a truck set out toward the factory
Inside the sound is stunning. The darker cries and bucks as it cuts through branch stubs and diminishes them to compliant bunches. Layer after layer of bark and external wood are peeled back until the storage compartment is exposed and smooth. Its base is dived into a vat of blazing creosote and additive constrained into its pores with unremitting weight
Viciousness now finishes, the new utility pole is stacked with sibling posts on yet another truck. What's more, one day he feels himself drop to the side of the street. A crane extends his top to the sky and brings down his feet into a profound gap. The post is currently penetrated by climbing spikes and crossbeams, connectors and protectors, then hung with murmuring high voltage lines. Telephone discussions and TV indicates go under his manufactured appendages, yet he doesn't hear them
Generally, he remains in stillness and contemplates his destiny. A periodic auto wishes by, a bird of prey rests upon his head for a couple of minutes sitting tight for rodents to mix in the field beneath. Be that as it may, for the most part, he stands stoic and sterile — never to become again, never to endure comes, never to see youthful ones grow up between his toes. Everything he can anticipate is the breaks and crevices that accompany dryness and age. He will feel the water of snow tempests dissolve and stream down those breaks into to his feet. It is there, underground, that he will in the long run spoil and rot 30 to 40 years subsequently. When he can, the shaft lives in the fragrant recollections of his past, not in the stark sadness of his present
My life hasn't precisely gone as I had arranged either. In any case, I understand that the utility pole outlined against the sky has found another intending to his life that he had no motivation to anticipate
Fowls shudder close to his top. Presently, one of them inches down the shaft and all of a sudden dispenses another savagery upon him. Blast, blast, blast. The woodpecker drives his sharp bill further and more profound into the post's sinewy tissues. Blast, blast, blast. The opening is sufficiently profound at this point. Peck, peck, peck. The flying creature chips the sides of the gap to augment it. It takes off immediately, yet now comes back with something in its mouth. It sticks an oak seed into the new gap until it is immovably wedged. Furthermore, now the fowl and his companions start once more. Blast, blast, blast. Peck, peck, peck
As I look deliberately, I can see that this specific utility pole has been a most loved of eras of Acorn Woodpeckers. Each profound split, each enlarging hole is stuck with several oak seeds from the Live Oak tree over the street. Each gap whittled out in years passed by is restuffed with an oak seed against the coming winter. I attempt to check them, yet soon surrender. Their number is past hundreds and must be more than a thousand — enough to sustain a whole province of woodpeckers the entire winter long. They won't starve, for their sustenance tree — their sterile nourishment tree companion supports them. The childless fire will live on in the woodpeckers and their hatchlings
What's more, as I see the post encompassed by its woodpeckers, bearing a harvest not its own for a family not its own, I sense it has developed more philosophical, more grateful with age. Few trees seek to be utility poles, you know, yet for some that are their fate
Frequently we can feel just agony and misfortune. We endure. We hurt. We feel frustrated about ourselves. In any case, once in a while, in the event that we can get a handle on it, God is making for us another and magnificent life through that which has passed on. Who might feel that a maturing shaft could be grateful for a province of woodpeckers? Who in reality
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