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...