The Pity of Trees
Towering pines lean curiously over the old man as he uses the remaining ink in his pen to write the words: Through the rivers flow the lifeblood of the Earth, but its soul resides in the trees.
He suspects these are man’s final words. He then realizes that when he dies on this sandy shore, the pen will stay with him, along with the variety of other belongings: the cast-iron pan; the knife and hatchet; the leather drink pouch; the ragged copy of Melmoth the Wanderer, wrapped in plastic.
From his pack, he reveals a syringe, one-third full of black liquid. On his knees, crawling toward the river, he fills another third with nearly frozen water. He pierces a vein and draws blood to fill the syringe. As he injects the mixture, he lies on the shore to await a creeping, icy coffin.
