A beautiful pond in the forest, with stepping stones to a camp in the middle. Fairytale. Pushing through branches. Leaf litter. An instinctual hushing, a quietening, a softening of the step.
There is a boy, a giant with dark hair falling in his eyes.
A sense constantly of alert, of waiting, an anxiety; reverence for the place mingled with fear for it, fear of the worst, fear of something inevitable unthinkable.
Unthinkable unstoppable ugly cruel pointless morally wrong practically wrong stupid hateful that this place be destroyed.
That its destruction is planned out, laid out like a battle map. We know the route of the proposed bypass: the protest camps are dotted along it, with outlying trees of especial age beauty or distinction having their own treehouses like masts out on open waters.