Tiny feet

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...