I dreamed I was a tree that remembered being cut down

I stood in a clearing, roots still twitching with the memory of soil. The bark wasn’t wood—it was old newspaper, pages fluttering like wings. I could feel the saw’s teeth not in my trunk but in my breath. Then I heard my own voice—my human voice—from somewhere far off, saying, 'That one’s too thin to save.' And I didn’t mind. I’d been waiting to be seen. Not as a thing to preserve, but as something that had lived.