It took the tree two hundred years to grow this tall, and less than a day to fall. Everything after that was slower, decades of rot, decades of green creeping over grey, decades of small things deciding this was, after all, a good place to live.
Now a row of seedlings stands along its spine, drawing whatever is left of it up into themselves. They won't remember the tree they're standing on. They don't need to. It already gave them everything it had left to give, height above the crowded understory, a few inches closer to the light, a start.
Nothing here mourns the falling. The forest only knows how to keep going.