The woods had a bad gnarly feeling
after the developer drove off.
The woods had heard what happens next.
The other isolated forests had spread the news
before they fell to greed.
Once, there were so many of their brethren
they could link branches. Now the space between
grew more distant and it was getting harder
to communicate. The woods had heard
the rumors of snap and break — how
even the tongues inside the stumps
stood no chance. What did life mean
if all it meant was loss and destruction?
The sequoias were the memory keepers
and they had survived the Apatosaurus —
even they now feared the axe. What
was the meaning anymore of being rooted?
The world was a rumble of logging trucks —
all bloody, all heaving, all restless.
If only the dirt road made the trucks slip —
what a foolish wish
not worthy even of the shrub brush.
I live among them. I can hear.
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