A lone, old tree stood at the edge of a cliff, its bark peeling like the pages of a weathered book. It was the last white gum tree that remained. The sea breeze rattled its empty branches now. But it hadn't always been the wind that moved its leaves.
Once, it was birds
The white gum had been home to generations of forty-spotted pardalotes. Year after year it watched them grow. In the morning they danced in the sunlight, their tiny wings flashing silver as they wove through the vast forest. Their songs filled the air, bright and alive. The tree sheltered them through the violent storms and guarded them through the long, dark nights. And every morning, when their song returned with the rising sun, the tree felt alive too.
But that was before.
Now the sky hung grey and dull, so empty it hardly seemed like life had ever lived there at all. No wings. No weaving through the branches. No music drifting through the leaves. Because when the trees began to disappear, so did the birds.
One by one the forest fell. Cut. burnt. Cleared. Treated like an obstacle in the way, not the living protectors they were. As the forty-spotted pardalotes vanished, the spirit of the tree faded with them.
It stood still on the cliff, waiting. Waiting to hear that morning song one last time. But it never came. The forty-spotted pardalotes were gone.
And as footsteps crept closer, tools scraping against the ground, the old white gum understood.
There would be no song for its final morning.
Only silence.

A lone, old tree stood at the edge of a cliff, its bark peeling like the pages of a weathered book. It was the last white gum tree that remained. The sea breeze rattled its empty branches now. But it hadn't always been the wind that moved its leaves.
Once, it was birds
The white gum had been home to generations of forty-spotted pardalotes. Year after year it watched them grow. In the morning they danced in the sunlight, their tiny wings flashing silver as they wove through the vast forest. Their songs filled the air, bright and alive. The tree sheltered them through the violent storms and guarded them through the long, dark nights. And every morning, when their song returned with the rising sun, the tree felt alive too.
But that was before.
Now the sky hung grey and dull, so empty it hardly seemed like life had ever lived there at all. No wings. No weaving through the branches. No music drifting through the leaves. Because when the trees began to disappear, so did the birds.
One by one the forest fell. Cut. burnt. Cleared. Treated like an obstacle in the way, not the living protectors they were. As the forty-spotted pardalotes vanished, the spirit of the tree faded with them.
It stood still on the cliff, waiting. Waiting to hear that morning song one last time. But it never came. The forty-spotted pardalotes were gone.
And as footsteps crept closer, tools scraping against the ground, the old white gum understood.
There would be no song for its final morning.
Only silence.

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