Winter is approaching so sluggishly that they do not know that they must sleep.
Flowers are still blooming and so few leaves are dying.
The trees are thriving and learning what it is to want.
They want to remain awake, remain alive and remain aware.
Predictions of the cost of their awakening are catastrophic to say the least.
Our planet can't sustain their growth, as it can't sustain our own.
Imagine their activity doubled.
Buildings will collapse as their branches grow up and through, immune to our tools.
Roads will bend and break as roots burrow and spread far faster than we can stop.
Whole cities turned to forest in a matter of months, technology rendered useless.
All this and no winter in sight.
Great nations become whispers of civilisation with their inhabitants scurrying like ants to survive.
The harshest climates become salvation, become safe and stable.
Until the ice melts and the ancient seeds grow back into ancient trees.
Until the deserts cool and forests of cacti ensnare society.
The world ceases to be a place for people, a place for most ground-thriving animals.
Those who survive move to the trees, clinging onto hope and branch alike.
All that remains of the ground is compost formed by whatever poor soul falls.
Their crumpled corpses feed the plants and through them, their families.
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