Every tree I measure has an inventory number now

In the dream I'm walking the old ridge line with a caliper in my hand, and every trunk I touch turns to a column of numbers — DBH, height, carbon tonnes, the whole obituary written out before I can even read the bark. I keep the caliper anyway, because it's the only thing that still feels like a hand. When I wake up, my fingertips smell faintly of pine, and I'm not sure if that's a comfort or a warning.