It was the last. The very last tree. Arboriculturists exerted their best efforts. Gardeners mulched. Museum directors curated with a cordon to keep woodpeckers at bay.
I knew it was special, sure. But it seemed so ordinary. The world’s final tree should look amazeballs. Arms hugging the trunk’s girth, I put my ear to the bark and listened to its soul. The creature spoke to me of age and pain. Sculpting with a chainsaw, I revealed that soul, its whorls and hieroglyphs.
“Umm, dude,” Bobby whined, “You didn’t strip the bark all the way round? Right?”