Brown grasses, battered by winter storms,
wave gently in the light breeze.
Skeleton snags and curved, deformed firs
ignored by the harvesters,
Lonely tenants of this land.
Gun metal clouds fly by at furious rates.
Sun breaks illuminate snow patches
on mountain ridges to the east.
Then mist rides in, obscuring vision.
The hum of a far-off airplane intrudes softly.
I stand in the midst of a logged-off knoll,
now meadow. Decaying stumps, forgotten logs
left lying promiscuously.
The old road is awash in winter snow melt and
runoff from hidden springs.
The present solemn stillness belies
once furious activity, the
noisesome denuding of this place.
What line, drawn in the dirt as with a knife,
stopped the hungry saws?
Now, silent scars recede into green coverings.
Nature's bandages binding man-inflicted
wounds of greed and coveting.
Stately moss-covered sentinels guard edges
of the silent plain.
Sun-dappled pockets of light seem to
bestow forgiveness.
Yet far off, the muted growl
of a chain saw is heard,
gouging new wounds.
JP 2-20-2011
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