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Thinking Like Trees 
Because trees don’t think the same as we do, 
we just assume that they don’t think at all. 
We, living only above the ground, 
think like birds or butterflies or bees: 
dreaming of travel when the days grow short, 
buzzing about nectar in some distant flower, 
striving for vistas high above the land. 
But trees think down to earth and close to home. 
Thrust your fingers deep into the ground, 
then edge them down a hair’s breadth every day, 
season after season, year on year, 
until the life blood, pulsing from the soil, 
insists with every beat that in this place 
— in this one place —you shall live your life: 
you, your children, and their children too. 
Then you will be thinking like a tree. 
All the rest is more good sense than science: 
weaving roots to hold the soil in place 
against the ravages of wind and rain; 
forming a canopy to catch the sun 
and cast a shadow on the undergrowth; 
linking boughs with half a dozen neighbours 
to keep from being singled out by winds; 
above all, cherishing both soil and water, 
garnering nutrients atom by precious atom 
during the growing season, then in autumn 
setting all the bounty back in place 
for use next year, and for a thousand more. 
The irony of all our lofty thinking 
is that mostly, we live just like trees: 
dwelling on a little patch of earth, 
nourished by the sun and air and rain, 
totally dependent on the soil. 
And so we might continue, on and on, 
if only we could learn to think like trees. 
David Fraser 
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