It was a cool morning, like any morning. All the early birds had left our branches. Sycamore, my neighbor, was especially lush at this time. Ever since I was a sprout, I’ve always admired Sycamore’s thick roots. There’s a lot one could tell by a tree’s roots. Sycamore had been watching over me ever since I was first plotted into this curious place of grey. It’s hard to stretch and grow in such a hard place, but Sycamore made it look easy. It must have been the new underground stream he’d found a few mornings ago. Sycamore had been working on that one for about three seasons.

The early morning is my favorite. Before all the thumping and trafficking of the fast ones start off into their congested logs of metal, the first light is all ours, warm, calm, happy.

However, this morning I would have rather been set ablaze than witness what I’ve heard.

Metal giants of their own kind, similar to those of the metal logs, but having their own degree of destruction, clamored upon the hard-bedded ground. Chopped, ripped, shredded. Sycamore, they came for Sycamore. It took them a measly quarter of sunlight. Sycamore has been here for longer than three of their generations. He was in his prime.

The horrible ringing of metal as it ground Sycamore from the top of his beautiful branches down to his buoyant roots still vibrates viciously in the wind. The light hits my roots now. Everything’s silent. I can’t hear him. Sycamore is gone.