58/

The tree is a thousand-or-so years old, now; people come daily to its grove and admire it alongside its brethren. Musing on the bulk of its trunk, they crane their necks to stare up into the canopy and appreciate the branches and their scaled, blue-green needles. Visitors stomp and trample and touch — the naughty ones pilfer a strip of bark – and never seem to stop and wonder at what occurs beneath the soil.

There’s no taproot burrowed deep into the earth, anchoring and growing opposite the trunk. These roots grow long and shallow, stretched and snaking, puzzled in among their neighbors. They form a canopy of their own, just below the rhythmic pounding of shoes kicking up dirt, mirrored and wider than the ones above. In place of needles, thin, shining strands of mycelium decorate the gnarled branches, combine with them to make a network of the forest. The old tree has a wealth of nutrients; it shares with its young neighbors, the few of a billion that made it from seed to sprout.

The roots talk and swap and support the beasts above. Unappreciated, unconsidered, yearning to be known.