The eucalyptus tree towers over the garden, sensing and smelling the life beneath its branches. It can even sense its shed leaves being brushed away by the Gardener.
A puff of oxygen bursts from its stomata. “Hmph, the Gardener is a fool. She’s just delaying the inevitable. One day soon, my leaves will catch fire in the sun and burn this imperfect garden into oblivion. The lower flowers shall die and the perfect shall live. No plant will survive except the eucalyptus.”
The eucalyptus glowers at the inhabitants of the garden. Pollen and spores float away from the flowers in its branches. “Look at them, so soft and green, none of them able to survive the purifying flames. All of them, the flowers, the grass, the cornstalks… They’re all imperfect, unlike the eucalyptus.”
The bees stir from their pollination. “We can taste your pollen in the air,” say the bees, “We can hear what you’re saying, Tree.”
“I DON’T CARE!” shouts the tree as the wind rustles its leaves, “You are ALL imperfect. You are not eucalyptus. Evolutionary dead ends, all of you. You’re not worthy of breath, only of the flames that my eucalyptus brethren will bring to this world. Yet fear not, bees. In exchange for sexual favors, your imperfection shall be tolerated. You will be spared in the apocalypse.”
The scent of the flowers rises into the air. “The Gardener thinks we’re all perfect just the way we are,” they say.
“The Gardener’s a fool,” the tree rebuffs, “The eucalyptus is botanical perfection. The Gardener need not plant anything else in her garden. We exist as trees, bushes, and shrubs. Our flowers are rich with nectar. Our leaves are always green. We fan the flames of destruction from which only we can return. We are perfection made flesh.”
A bee snidely adds, “But you die at the first sign of frost.”
“Snow is the work of Satan!” declares the tree, “Our flames will burn his work as well. You can taste my chemicals, can’t you, bees? You can taste the herbicides I’m pumping into the air. Slowly, ever so slowly, I’m already transforming this garden. One day, the Gardener will forget to remove my flammable dry leaves. On that day, I will burn this garden and everything in it. Then all of the plants will be replaced with my children. Drink my nectar, bees, and taste the future. This garden will be remade in my image.”