Fallen Giants

"And the trees are all kept equal By hatchet, axe, and saw." -Rush, "The Trees"
The past week has brought a great deal of broken branches and fallen trees. The winter storms that buffeted our region knocked out power and cut phone lines, most of which was caused by leaning trunks or falling limbs. My wife and I rushed out of our basement last Saturday morning when we heard the crack and rush of leaves associated with impending doom. We had already had, some years back, a eucalyptus tree from the grove behind us, crash down across our fence and miss landing on our back deck by just a few degrees. Last week we were lucky when the tired giant leaned north and south instead of east and west, and landed in a neighbor's yard, not ours.
We have had a love/hate relationship with the trees behind us for as long as we have lived here. My wife fell in love with the sounds of the birds in their nests when she first came to look at the place almost eleven years ago. At the same time, we have sneered at the non-native eucalyptus, and worried that they might eventually leave their limited root system and become lumber in need of removal. The sound of the wind rustling through their leaves, and the creaking sound their trunks made as they rubbed together on blustery days was part of the music of our back yard. All the while, however, the trees and plants in our yard had to wait until past noon to get the sun that the eucalyptus had been soaking up since dawn.
This morning, we woke to the sound of chain saws. The landlord behind us was taking down the stand of eucalyptus trees, working proactively to limit the damage that might be caused by another storm, or just a stiff breeze. It made my wife cry. It might be fair to note that my wife has also been known to cry at the weddings and births of fictional characters on television shows, but this one cut deep. Her memories of the birds and their songs was replaced by the angry buzz of the saw cutting through wood. They went from vertical to horizontal abruptly. She could only shout over the fence for explanation, but she already knew the answer. That didn't soothe the hurt of losing the forest behind her house.
I remembered the summers I spent in Colorado, helping my father bring down pine-beetle infested trees on our property in the mountains. When we were done, an entire hillside was nothing but stumps and plastic-covered stacks of poisoned wood. I remember my father telling me that aspen trees would grow back quickly to take their place, and in a few years, their white and black trunks had risen up to prove him right.
It's a cycle. The shadows we used to have on our back yard have been replaced by sunshine. For now, we're celebrating the light, and remembering fondly our cabin in the woods.