Trees

dusk sit.

the woodcutters came today and began their work. most of the individual trees that i know and love are still standing near our house, but much of the forest out back has been felled. looking west from my sit spot, i see jumbles of branches on the ground, a roiling ocean of miscellaneous limbs, disembodied and lying on the earth. the mystery and dark of the forest transformed into open sky, emptiness.

a row of trees marks the beginning of the neighbor's spared forest.

the straight trunks that the woodcutters found in the bodies of the trees have been piled in the next yard over. neatly stacked, freed of branches, needles, leaves, freed of bird nests, shadows. the pileated holes are the only thing marking the anonymous faces of our friends, lumber, to be stacked on trucks and brought to the mill.