Dying Breed
- Louis Frank
- Aug 15
- 2 min read
Ancient trees are a dying breed.
They are a dying breed because they are steadily going out of existence, yes—but, more than that, ancient trees are a dying breed because they have mastered the art of dying.
In the current Anthropocene, old lifeforms are disappearing. When one is found, there is rejoice and grief in equal measure: anything that old is from a time before, and the now is killing it. The only reason ancient trees have lived long enough for us to find is because they have dragged out their dying breaths into centuries.
There is a huge skeleton of a tree in my backyard, looming over my house. The tree is so rotted through that a branch fell and burst on the ground on a clear and windless day.
When visitors see the tree, they comment on its terrifying potential. “Your landlord really should get that removed,” or, “That thing would make me nervous.” They always talk as if the tree can’t hear them.
Because trees have mastered the art of dying, it logically follows that they have mastered life in death; in fact, that they exist outside of the life and death dichotomy entirely.
Trees live in spacetime—that is to say, time within place, place within time—beyond our understanding. We are connected to trees through the rotation of the sun, the rise and fall of the seasons, and no more. To believe otherwise is human pride.
The separation between humans and trees allows trees to judge us. I see that now.
The skeleton of a tree is my executioner.
Judgement from death, action from release. Executioner and sword in one.
Trees do not move when they do not feel like it, and when a tree moves, it moves once: to fall. Something that has mastered the art of dying will only die in the way it sees fit.
One day, one day, the tree will fall, and it will either fall on my house or away from it, and I will be judged. Until then, I wait, relieved that I will have an answer, more than happy to give up trying to find significance in my daily life. Honored to be removed from human discourse and absorbed into the world of trees, if just for a moment.
Louis Frank is an aspiring writer based out of Asheville, North Carolina. His obsessions with gothic literature and nature take up most of his time. Pheobe and Salem, his two cats, take up most of his heart.