Journey 4 - Destination

The poster

I don't know about others, but I, like any tree, have been wondering for a while now what my fate will be. And this, since almost every year, my friend, the woodcutter, has been passing by this forest stream, either measuring us with a ruler or hammering us with all sorts of instruments never seen before. I could feel something coming. All the more so because something similar had happened to my cousin. You know him. I'll tell you about the smirk on the rock on the hill. The one who first saw the crown of his crown when the sun rose from behind the ridge in the morning and said his last goodbye to the star of the day, his branches reddened by the rays of the sunset. Let me tell you how it happened.
Must have been about three years ago. I've been seeing a couple of people swarming around their laps. They'd come up, hit him lightly with a hammer, others with an open palm. They'd listen with their ear to the bark, and then they'd tap it again, and they'd keep looking up at the peak that rose about a hundred feet above the cliff. It wasn't long before one winter they came armed with axes and a beschie and knocked him to the ground. They cleared it of branches, which they dragged back to the valley where they loaded it into a cart, then tied it to a horse's harness and off it went. Rumour has it he was taken straight to the violin factory.
Am I going to be the same?
I'm curious what life will hold for me!
In a way, I'd feel sorry for the friends I'm leaving behind.
I'd feel sorry for old Santa Martin who, when he approached me, would get up on two legs, as if he wanted to hug me, and sharpen his claws on my bark. He would then go off grunting to the nearby raspberry bush where he would gorge himself greedily until his tummy ached. He'd turn around washed up and stick his paw into the anthill next to me, which he'd lick to get rid of the belly.
I would feel sorry for the two fat squirrels who, while munching hungrily on my cones, were laughing at their cousins in America who didn't have such a wonderful tail like they did. They also laughed at their grey cousins in the Asian tundra, who had no pride of red or black fur like themselves.
I'd miss the elegant little guion, dressed in black, white and red, that woke up the whole forest with its machine-gun noise, when it fed on our bark and saved us from the little worms and geese that swarmed under it, making us suffer.
I would miss the owl that, at night time, would fly unheard from my branches to claw a poor little mouse that hunger drove out of its burrow or some wretched cowbird.
I shall also miss the lynx or lynx with its striped fur and the mote at the tip of its ears, which, on dark nights, crept unheard, like a ghost, to hunt some sleeping bird, squirrel or reckless young deer.
And how many more!
But on the other hand, I was glad.
I'll finally get rid of the worms that were cocooning in my needles. I'll also get rid of the dandruff that some call bear's beard and that dries out my branches. I'll get rid of the mites, the whiteflies, the rust. No more will the cowrie, or as it is better known, the jasmine, grow on my bark to suck my sap and leave deep scars.
And one spring morning, when it was barely dawn, they came. With great laughter, they entered the pine forest, accompanied by small but strong horses, who were obviously used to the forest. Armed with axes, axes and hoes, they set off to lay us down. Only the most arsonists escaped. After they had cleared us of the branches, the cornucopia followed. They rolled us with their hoes to the creek, then, with the help of horses, they dragged us to the road.
Where will we end up?

Waiting