A tree is comprised of mostly dead weight; tissues that form the majority of the bark are long past living. They exist in order to carry the crown, appropriately named as the tree’s glory where every leaf takes in and feeds on sunlight. The phloem that once transported the sugars from light dies and becomes part of the bark. Due to the complexity of the exterior, the cambium, the twigs and branches, the fruit, it is difficult to imagine the roots. So deep in the earth they seem like another being, as in how could they possibly be attached to the giant oak above ground? But it is the roots that feed the tree. They keep it anchored in place; are in constant search of soil and permanence. There is no expectation to fall, or pick up and leave home. And though the tree is the grandness of the roots, it is just as much a part of the cycle. Though it seems removed, the glory of the crown seems light and overbearing, there is not one without the other; the above earth tree will give birth to other systems of root and anchors; the tree will carry on. To either side, there is no expectation for horizontal movement. For picking up and leaving. But a tree is felled. But the soil is damaged. There are uncontrollable toxins breaching the systems. Who could have expected this? Who could blame the roots for carrying the wrong substances? For taking in leached soil, for damaging the triumph of green atop the dirt? Who could have seen this coming? Perhaps there was no greater surprise to anchor and crown than this intrusion, both not prepared for something so trite as expect the unexpected.