These were my woods. I walked each day. Breathing
sweet air, beside little springs and falling
fall leaves. In winter my neighbor and I
strapped on snowshoes and took turns breaking path
one for the other. We heard bare branches
creak in the winds. Such small sounds only made
the silence quieter. We didn’t speak. Perhaps
our heavy breathing required that. Perhaps
our friendship did not require many words.
Yesterday and today a great machine
harvested our trees. It tore and cut. It flung
whole oaks and beeches to the ground, maples
waved their autumn gold and fiery crowns. These
were not our woods after all. They’ve been sold.
Photograph by Jes Davis
Smoky Quartz 