My name is Joshua Tree.

Made fertile by a yucca moth, my mother cast her seed which became me onto the desert floor in your year of 1871. Over the following ten summers, I reached just 30 inches from the ground, while providing shelter from the wind and sun to countless tiny insects and reptiles.  

It took another 30 winters to double my height. Thereafter, as I slowly grew, branches began to emerge and ever-larger animals and birds began to find shelter and food among my canopy. The ancient ones would carefully harvest my flowers and seeds for food, and shape my leaves to make baskets to carry their burden and make sandals for their feet.

As the countless seasons passed overhead, I saw humans from other worlds trample my home, cutting down my sisters to fence off the land and fuel their fires. But, as if by divine intervention, I missed their fate and survived.

My summers of late have grown longer and hotter. The soil beneath me slowly dries and loses the moisture that nurtures new life.  

Now, one hundred fifty winters have gone by and I stand and watch the flames of fire edge closer, as an endless line of machines of a human world pass by. I stand evermore alone, scarred and twisted by the ages. I will survive.