Landscape

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Landscape of a tree

Imagine if, by some peculiar and, most likely, unpleasant turn of events, you became very very small, so very small that each of these cones was a mountain, and you lived here, eking out a livelihood in the grooves and ridges of the bark? Naked and cold.

What with the rain, flooding every cranny with dreary force, farming wouldn't be much of option. You would be better to forage, seeking fresh bacteria in those woody valleys. Or to scrape into the surface with your tiny nails in the hope of some edible slivers.

Where would you live? In a hovel made of grains of bark, or could you find a crack and slip into it every night for safety?

An ant casting its shadow on your home would represent a divine terror. You might live in fearful reverence of these vengeful creatures, with maggots, spiders and bees as other deities? Would you, weekly, present them desperate offerings: fresh piles of microbes and bacteria on rudimentary alters? Accompanying these with solemn pledges of love, of obedience, much mournful singing, and prayers that one day you might return to your previous, innocuous existence as a kitchen fitter or marketing assistant or suchlike (only now chastened, resolute in your humility before the Divine)?

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