The Complaint

To Whom It May Concern


Yesterday I noticed they’d torn some trees down at the Institute. Put them back! Ash and elm, beech and birch, apple and pear: let them grow there again. This is my command.


A great freakish digging machine stands armoured and proud upon the tender dirt-wound where gentle trees once stood. Not long ago birds lived in those trees. They sang the day awake. But this day did not wake properly, not at all. It was like this: I woke up this morning a lowly mailman and made coffee like I do every day and was soon on my way to work. In the late morning I happened upon the muddy horror at the Institute and was sickened by what I saw. Or rather by what I did not see!


All the trees were gone (we have established this already but I feel compelled to say it again). Then and there I decided to make myself Monarch of Everything. What I demand is to see those trees put back where they were. If someone does not do it soon, heads will roll and those same heads will be planted where the trees used to live. Yes, this is one of the ways in which this savage world works: take away a humble man’s trees and you’ll create a mad emperor with eyes of fire and fists of righteous granite. Put those trees back and do it now. Do it before nightfall. Turn back the clock. Reel in your folly as a fisherman reels in a fish. Dine bitterly on your own tragically poor judgement. Pray your new lord and master chooses to be merciful. Above all, let there be birds again.


Open the gates of your prison and free our trees.


Put them back. Maple, chestnut, pine and cedar… Let them grow there again.



His Lordship

Monarch of Mercy or Mercilessness. (How do you want it?)


© Brett Davidson, 2014

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