A Guest Post by Lilian Stotzfus:
Said the ant to the great tree, “I have a question for thee.”
The tree stood and waited, and the ant continued. “Are you a he, or are you a she?”
Pine needles whispered in the breeze. “I am both a he and a she,” said the tree. “What of thee?”
Said the ant to the great tree, “I am a she.” The ant scurried along the naked root, then paused. “I understand what you have told me, tree, but may I call you Sir?”
“You may,” chuckled the tree. “What shall I call you?”
The ant climbed further up the root. “Call me what you like, sir.”
The tree was quiet for a few moments. “I can only think to call you Small One,” it said at last. “Does that offend you?”
The ant walked from one patch of bark, to the next, and then back again. “There is no offense in being small, sir.”
Sunlight swelled on the tree’s towering crown. “Indeed there is not. My own children begin in seeds as small as you, and the cones I grow for them are not much bigger in my eyes.”
The ant stopped her scurrying. “Truly, sir?”
“Truly.”
The ant turned so that her head faced the needles high on the trunk. “If you and your children begin so small, sir, why do you grow so tall?”
“We grow so tall to reach the sun,” said the tree. “Our needles need it to give us strength, and we do not have legs to carry us up.” The needles parted in the wind, and light dappled the bark on which the ant stood. “Why do you stay so small, small one?”
The ant saw the sunlight. She swiveled her antennae. “I do not need to be big to do my work.”
The sunlight danced around the ant. “What is your work?” asked the tree.
The ant cocked her head and wiped clean an antenna. “I scout for food, sir. When I find it, I take a piece to the nest and leave a trail so that my sisters can bring the rest.” She turned her head the other way and began cleaning her second antenna. “I tend to my baby sisters, and I build more tunnels and rooms as our family grows.”
“You work hard, small one,” answered the tree. “Do you grow weary?”
“I do not, sir. I am content.”
“I am glad.”
The ant crept a few inches across the red bark. “Do you not get restless, sir? Do you not wish that your roots were legs?”
Needles and branches stirred in the sky above. “I do not, small one. My work is not in scouting or moving. My roots reach into the soil and weave into the roots of my kin. We strengthen each other against the mountain storms and share in the rains. My trunk grows thick as the years pass and scarred as the fires roar. My needles bathe and dance in the rays of the sun. I feel the dew of the earth. I feel you and your sisters dig and crawl along my roots. I feel the tremors of the granite beneath. I dig. I climb. I grow. That is my work, and I am content.”
The ant was still. “You have stood here a long time.”
The tree was still as well. “I have stood here since the Creator walked as a man, in a land across the sea.”
The ant understood. “Will you stand here much longer, sir?”
“I know not,” said the tree. “I may stand here another thousand years.”
The ant shifted her antennae. Her black eyes glistened in a mote of sun. “My life is short. Even if you don’t stand another thousand years, I will not be here when you fall.”
The tree understood. “When I do fall, the creatures of the earth will draw strength from my wood. My body will become the soil, and your kin will use that soil to build their nests.”
“And your kin will use that soil to grow their roots,” said the ant.
“You are young, small one,” said the tree. “But you are clever and wise.”
The ant turned again to look up the great trunk. “And you are vast, sir. But you are humble and kind.”
The tree stood silent. The shadows stretched longer on the earth.
The ant scurried across the bark toward a root. “Evening comes, sir. I must return to the nest.”
Great branches swayed and creaked. “Small one.”
The ant paused.
The tree continued. “I understand that your time is short and that you have much work to do. But if you are able, will you stop to speak with me again?”
The ant took in the scent of the tree with her antennae. “I will, sir,” she said. “But in case I cannot, I will leave a trail, and my sisters can come and speak with you.”
“I would like that,” said the tree.
***
Lilian is an obstetric RN with vague plans to continue her education. She is an amateur artist and writer, a lover of human fetuses and neonates, a lover of cats and other living things, a lover of dragons, and a lover of language.
She is also a follower of Jesus Christ: the Great Physician, the ultimate artist, and the most skilled of authors.
Find her blog at https://veileddragons.wordpress.com/