A tree that’s been growing for centuries dwarfs a man in height, bulk and weight, making him look small and insignificant, puny and harmless at the base of its great old trunk. Even a tree of a human lifespan dwarfs the biggest and strongest man, so that he seems fragile and trivial in comparison. And the bright orange of his hard hat and the fluorescent yellow of his faller’s vest don’t make him look any bigger; they merely make his smallness more noticeable.

He even looks small and harmless as he starts his chainsaw, lifts it to a horizontal position for its first cut, then revs the engine just before the sharp teeth begin biting into the tree’s protective bark.

Anyone who is familiar with particular trees from walking among them or driving by them will be amazed at how quickly a chainsaw can end their decades or centuries of slow and patient growth. It’s incongruous that such a huge bone of rising wood, of flowing sap and living cambium — a living thing so silent and strong, so adorned with branches and innumerable needles or leaves — should be so vulnerable.

Watching such a tree being felled is like being present at a bedside deathwatch. The end is inevitable. After the bark, the chain claws at heartwood older than the man’s childhood, even older than his parents and grandparents. One cut. Then another above or below that intersects with the first. Pound out the triangle of the undercut. Then begin the back cut. Insert the wedges and pound them in lightly. More cutting into ancient wood perhaps older than the man’s traceable heritage, than his family name or his thoughtless measure of history. Carefully now. More pounding to set the bite of the wedges and increase the leverage. And the great tree, once so firm and strong against winds and storms, begins to tremble to its very top with each strike of the sledge. A bit more cutting. A discernible leaning. Then a hesitant cracking followed by a reluctant squeaking and tearing of weight against weight as its rootedn connection to the earth is severed. The gigantic whoosh as the tree accelerates toward the ground sounds like a last great breath, as if it is exhaling in seconds its uncounted days of taking in water, soil and sunshine. And then the seismic impact of crashing wood and shattering branches.

The man looks bigger now. Maybe not as tall as a few of the ruined branches sticking awkwardly in the air. But he does look bigger. And much less harmless.

When felling such trees, the mind must be attentive, focused on a task that can be dangerous to men. But what of before? Why was the tree cut? Do the explanations justify the actions? And what of after? How long does it take for a tree to die? How does it die? Does it deserve death? What will happen to its corpse? Will it decay quickly or slowly? Will it be resurrected in a cause worthy of its long life? “I am just a man making crosses,” said the carpenter. ”I am just a man making nails,” said the blacksmith. “I am just a man following orders,” said the soldier pounding the nails through the flesh.

Isn’t this the way it usually is? No one really knows. No one is really responsible. If we think at all, our individual acts usually come with a wealth of excuses shaped by irresistible opportunity, regrettable necessity or economic imperative. Or we say we didn’t know. Or no one told us. Or a developer must maximize profits. Or the shareholders must be served. Or an economic opportunity cannot be missed. Or an owner owns the land so the trees — mere objects — are his to do with as he pleases.

Maybe the entrepreneur is young and eager, dreaming of money’s wealth. Or maybe the owner is old and feeble, mustering a last gesture of power before time’s turning fells him with its silent sawing. Anyone with an appreciation of poetry and a recollection of Dylan Thomas’s deeply sonorous voice can’t help but think of his image of chalky, arthritic bones killing a city. This time, however, his famously poetic lines might read: “The hand that signed the paper felled the trees. / These five fingers did a forest to death.”

Trees are too rarely saved for love, beauty, or sentimentality, or simply because they are great, tall, heroic beings that have spent vast stretches of time in a winning struggle against the pull of gravity and the adversity of weather. For this alone, they each deserve our respect and veneration. Never mind that each tree is a biological miracle, an incredibly intricate assemblage of uncounted cells and vascular passages, of bark and needles or leaves that we cannot replicate with the best of our science. But, when a forest becomes a cemetery — each tree conveniently supplying its own headstone — we cannot attach the severed stems to their stumps and demand that they grow again. The chainsaw’s cut is final. “What’s done cannot be undone.”

Like grief, most people will remember when a special tree was taken from their lives. Maybe it was a single tree they climbed as a child; maybe a small stand of huddled trees they drove by on their daily commute to work; maybe a whole forest they once visited in hushed awe; or maybe the trees were something abstract they viewed in the distance, like a reassuring hue of breathing green on the side of a faraway mountain.

Whatever, trees are an integral part of most human lives. Their relative permanence juxtaposes with our fleeting years, urgent appetites, hungry needs, restless impulses, passing commitments and short histories. We need their longevity, their grounded presence and their slow time to provide us with the illusion of stability, assurance and hope. Pity that most trees are felled so thoughtlessly.