Perspective of a Tree

Have you ever wondered what a story from the perspective of a tree would sound like? Well, recently I decided to find out, and I wrote a short thing-a-ma-bob about (surprise!) a tree. I don’t know how good it is, but here it is anyways. Enjoy! (Or not…)


A gentle breeze tickles my leaves, and they chatter in delight, as the moon reluctantly sinks beneath my hill. Goodnight, moon; sleep in peace until darkness bathes the plains once again. The wind sighs in my branches, and I sway gently to and fro to the rhythm. Nearly asleep, I watch quietly as a line of pink slowly spreads over the eastern horizon. The stars blink and yawn, waving good night one last time before winking out one by one. They never were much for staying up long. I smile and wave good night, as giant clouds lovingly tuck them into bed. Sleep well, my friends.

 I sigh, and watch the wave of pink wash over the sky and curl through the holes in the great gray clouds, turning them dazzling shades of pink, orange, and purple. A great red disk slowly eases over the horizon, and I hold my breath, fairly hearing the trumpets blowing to greet the sun. Golden rays of light flood the world, and the hills explode in fields of color – green, brown, yellow, red, pink, white. Good morning, sun.

I smile, as the robins nesting in my branches begin to sing. Their joyful noise fills me with gladness, and I rustle my leaves along with them. Good morning, friends. They chirp back at me, as the sun pulls itself away from the horizon once and for all, leaping into the vast blue ocean of a sky. Today there are many gray islands in that blue expanse. I test the air. There will be a storm before the day is over, no doubt. 

The sun climbs higher, casting a great, black shadow behind me, and as it rises above the great gray clouds, their shadows creep along the hills like a herd of sleepy sheep. The breeze freshens to a wind, and my branches creak and groan. Slowly, reluctantly, I bend my back at the wind’s command. I watch in sorrow as the clouds roll in, continually blackening, as they crowd out the sun’s cheering rays. Farewell, sun. The light fades, and the wind moans, increasing to a gale. My back aches from bending before it, but I have not the strength to stand aright. My branches groan in protest and my leaves fairly scold it, but the wind does not heed me. 

At last, the wind achieves its goal, and obliterates the sky with the vast gray expanse it brought in. At least the clouds share my sorrow at the sun’s distress, and they weep upon the earth. Torrents of water stream to the ground, beating my leaves off my branches, and tearing at the poor robin’s nest. Puddles begin to gather in the hollows about my roots, and I shiver in delight as they refresh my tired soul. I smile, and for a while, it does not seem such a burden to bend so before the gale.

Gradually, gently, so that I hardly notice the change, the rain abates, and the clouds slowly thin and disperse, tired of their play for now. Gradually, reluctantly, the gale retreats before the influence of a gentle breeze, and the robins venture a hesitant chirp, testing the atmosphere for further disturbances. Seeing all is well, they burst into cheery song once more, and I smile and shake my leaves along with them. Farewell, storm. Hello again, sun.

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7 thoughts on “Perspective of a Tree

  1. Faith B.

    Well done, Calista! I did something like that in one of my books. Mine was from the perspective of a park bench. That was fun! 😀

  2. Jo Steckly

    Very interesting point of view! I bet Faiths perspective of a park bench would be interesting too! :o)

    • Thanks. 🙂 I didn’t know you were reading my blog. 😀

    • Faith B.

      Thanks, Jo. It is interesting. Here’s just a bit of it:

      If park benches could talk, what tales could they tell? How many lovers have they seen? How many relationships broken and made up? How many tears soaked in, laughter heard, sighing’s comforted? The park bench had seen and heard it all and now, yet anther saga was about to be added to its long memory book.
      On this particular park bench, this particular day, there sits a nervous young woman. The intuitive old bench can tell she is waiting for someone. She twists her hands nervously in her lap as her eyes dart around, watching, waiting.
      After a few minutes, the bench notices that the woman’s body has gone tense. The one she awaits is approaching. Ah, yes, there he is. He has a striking figure, is plain to see that you would not want to get on his bad side.
      The woman quickly stands up and rushes to embrace him. After a lingering embrace, the man gently guides the weeping woman to the bench.

  3. Love this, Calista. 😀 Great job. ^_^

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