http://photography.nationalgeographic.com/photography/photo-of-the-day/pond-poland-winter-morning/

It was the ninth time they had gathered at the lake’s edge. It took circumstances of true consequence to bring the rulers of the forests to this place. Eight times before the tree lords had felt that unfolding events had required them to meet. Eight times before the tree lords had uprooted from their ancestral homes to make the long journey. Each trekked across vast distances across dry deserts, through roaring rivers and over snowcapped mountains. It was a tradition that had served them well, and to a tree they were committed to the conclave.

They came one by one, branches creaking, to the sleepy lakeshore at the furthest edge of their world. One by one, they set their tired roots into the moist ground, exhaled invisible plumes of oxygen, and prepared to debate the future of all trees.

In their lifetimes, they had already met twice. Never before had the tree lords met with such frequency. It was a profound statement about the conditions they now faced that none has hesitated when the White Oak called the second and third time. The forests themselves were at stake, and the survival of tree kind rested on their bark-wrapped trunks.

They had been assembled and settled for a few hours. Their roots were down, their water systems reactivated. The morning mist flittered across their leaves and whistled through the thin fingers of their most slender branches. Time ticked away, and it was a resource of which they had precious little. The ninth conclave commenced.

“We’ve come together once more, my old friends, at the confluence of extraordinary events. In ages past, the Great Trees met at this very lake, on this same shore, to debate the way forward for all trees. They presented bold solutions, roared passionate dissent, and in the end they chose wisely. The world’s only constant is change, and our continued existence is due in no small measure to their courage and their conviction to act in the face of uncertainty.

“When the wind shifted millennia ago, the first conclave was called. Dry air had invaded and the trees faced an incredible water shortage. The Great Trees undertook an incredible task, and they moved entire forests to lands where rain still fell.

“Five more times they faced dire events, and five times the conclave met to find the way forward. We trees are resilient. We have survived blights, we have endured rabid wildfires and rains both unending and utterly absent. We have faced down the doom of infinite dark clouds that follow volcanic eruption, a ceiling through which such weak light filtered we could hardly bathe our leaves to inspire the breath of life.

“The world changes again, my old friends. Once again, our forests are threatened and our action is needed. This is the third time I have said so, the third time I have called us here. We must act.”

With a proud ruffling of leaves, the White Oak fell quiet. The others nodded in approval. These were smart trees experienced in the ways of the world, and they understand the gravity of their situation. The White Oak’s speech befitted the seriousness of the moment, and they felt it was a suitable open to their debate.

Insects had invaded the forests. They were strange, round creatures of a type the trees had not seen in all their years. For a time, it had been easy to ignore those few that flitted through the streams of light that spilled through the canopy. But those few had bred with impunity, and larger numbers revealed larger problems.

The insects ate wood. It began with a single breeding pair. They would mate and lay eggs in the crevices of a tree’s trunk. When the eggs hatched, disaster struck. The larvae would bore into the body of the tree, eating away areas used for vascular function. The host tree quickly weakened, as it became unable to move nutrients through its own body. Few survived beyond the third hatching.

“The hills are littered with the dead,” the Birch said in her crisp, cool voice. She was the youngest tree called, and she’d arrived days earlier than the others. Her area was struck hardest, and she was eager to seek answers. “It is a grave thing to walk through a field of ash and understand the dust was once bark and wood and life.”

“The low forests are not yet affected, and we have allies,” the Alder said. “The orioles, cardinals and all their proxies have agreed to identify the beetles as a food source should they reach us.”

“It will not work,” the Birch said. “Our birds made similar offers. In the end, they could not eat the things. Many were made ill. A few died, and they were forced to abandon the plan.”

“The birds are brave, and it is wise to trust their loyalty. But they cannot be blamed for their biology. If our birds cannot eat the strange beetles, our main weapon against the bugs is rendered feckless.” The Beech was older than all here save for the White Oak, and she had survived huge fires that had become almost perennial in her woods. Her word carried a great deal of weight.

“The high forests have not experienced huge losses,” the Walnut reported with typical calm. “From our reports, the beetles there are picky about which of us they will infest. Our birches have suffered, but the walnuts nearby have been spared. Higher up, the spruces remain untouched.”

“If they choose with caution, is it possible we can act with a targeted plan?” the Beech asked. “If the birches and their cousins are the most vulnerable, can they be protected somehow with those of our number that are seen as undesirable to the vile beasts?”

The White Oak shook his thick branches in opposition. “I do not believe that will work. They are picky now when presented with boundless choice. But they eat wood, and in the absence of their preferred meal, they will hunt what is available. If we shield the birch, they will turn to the others.”

“So what must we do?”

The White Oak sighed in a sound that was wind across branches in the hours before a storm. He knew that what he was about to propose was radical. It had only been done once before. It would not be popular, but he must win them over. He was certain it was the only way.

“We must go. We must follow the example set by our ancestors and move the forests, across the lake, to a place where the beetles cannot reach us before they perish from starvation. One day, should we survive, our children can return.”

The reaction was much as he had expected. None of the trees felt it was an achievable undertaking. It had only been done the one time, and that was millennia ago when the trees were more mobile, when spreading to new territory was still a part of their culture. The trees now were settled, proud of the slice of sky and the patch of ground they called home.

For a time, everyone argued over and through one another. Points were made in quick succession, some valid, some painfully reactionary. Progress was not made before they all petered out to catch their breath and reset.

“I feel the Great Trees now more than I ever have,” the White Oak said in a soft tone that bordered on confessional. “In this place, I am encumbered by a tremendous weight of expectation. I feel the Great Trees here with keen clarity, as if they are massive ghosts, lurking in the mist. They peer over my shoulder, gauge my thoughts, but melt away when I turn around. They watch us, even now, with the awesome tether of our shared history as their only voice.

“I do not know what will be the right choice for us. I do not know down which path we will find salvation and down which path we will encounter unthinkable tragedy. I crave one and, I’m not ashamed to admit, fear the other. But I am a tree of history, and I believe we risk great folly if we ignore that which has served us well in the past.

“We must act now. We must explain to our brethren the true measure of the threat we all face, and we must convince them to take flight. It has saved us once before, and barring the miracle of a beetle predator knocking on our trunks in the morning, it is very likely our only chance.

“I can feel the Great Trees watching us, trying to guide us as apparitions at the edge of vision, whispering instructions in a too-soft voice like ghosts in the snow. We must move the forests and the woods, the field sentinels and the highland pioneers. We must find our way in a new world, away from here and the scourge of an enemy we do not understand and cannot stop.”

There was a long silence. Minutes passed with no sound. Each member of the conclave contemplated the enormity of the proposed endeavor. It was either drastic or bold. It was impractical in either case.

The debate was young yet, and they would not decide either way without digging their roots into every piece of land the proposal covered. Nothing was decided, and there was no obvious answer.

But the White Oak felt progress could be made. He knew the memories of the Great Trees lingered here at the lakeshore. He could feel them towering over the conclave, unseen inspiration for great leaders to rise to the level of the challenge before them. He did not turn from the lake to where he felt their presence for he knew he would see nothing but fog and grass.

He knew they were there. And he thought, this time, that might be enough.