I felt
their tremors this morning,
thumping
of tiny feet along the wires.
They
were destroying their home of years,
and tiny
feet became homeless.
With
ears on alert they heard
the
maple groan and moan, shuddering,
as the
chainsaw began it's onslaught
murdering
this living being of fifty years.
A
perfectly healthy tree was slayed today
because
the keepers complained of her bounty
and were
too lazy to rake her leaves,
a small
concession of shelter from the sun and heat
and
abodes to creatures but do they think of that?
I stood
in shocked silence as the human monkeys
swung
from limb to limb, slicing each off oblivious
to her
anguish while tiny feet stomped in horror.
I have
many mature trees and spent days raking
this
autumn but I consider it a small payback
for the
happiness they bestow on me.
The
shade to cool the house and provide shelter
for this
redhead, and homes for creatures and songbirds,
privacy
along the street, not to mention the muffling
of the
occasional ya hoo, which that house has plenty of,
perhaps
that's the reason, so their hound dog sorry
excuse
of music could be heard even louder.
Still,
the grinder lasted beyond sunset and now
the
evening landscape is vacant of one less tree
one less
living being, that will never be regained
while tiny
feet scurry to find another home...
I was not a happy camper when I found the source of the noise this morning. Chainsaws affect me, even though I understand the reason for winter wood and such I can't help but relate death to them. Perhaps it's me soul...
