In the country trees live their lives unmolested by humans.  They sprout up, mature, die and rot to feed the next generation.  Farmers or other country residents try to ” manage” things a little but it’s a futile struggle and the best they can hope for is a peaceful sharing of land, air, rain and energy. In the city it’s a different story.  Trees get planted, watered and fertilized to green up the environment of city residents.  At the slightest sign of disease or infestation, they are cut down.  They are mangled so that power lines can pass freely through their branches.  I’ve heard grouches grumble about having to sweep up leaves, classing the colourful or drab signs of Autumn as litter.  Poor city trees.  They never have a chance to spread their roots under the miles or paved streets, around sewer pipes or gas installations.  They vie with traffic lights, stop signs, advertisements for our attention.

Country trees have a sort of joyful wildness about them.  They may grow at random in the bush, struggling for light and nutrients but they enjoy that greatest of luxuries, silence.  That’s why they look happier.