“Check it out, Dad – a dying tree that grew through a windmill! Well, a windmill tower, at least; there aren’t any blades.”
A moment passes.
“Isn’t that poetic?” my dad asks.
“Well, that windmill was probably pumping water. Thanks to that water, some seed dropped from a bird’s mouth – a bird who sat on the windmill’s frame – and a tree began to grow. Many years pass, and eventually the tree grows tall and wide, so much that it interferes with the motion of the windmill’s blades. And the source of life for the tree is prevented from pumping any water, so the tree dies. See, poetic.”
My dad astounds me sometimes. I love him so much.