When a Tree Falls in the Forest...

The yip of a youngish dog can travel far,
reach his owner's ears a mile away,
here in the valley, we hear screams coming
from mountain parts hidden in clouds.

You cannot cut a tree in secret,
the shriek is mechanical, criminal,
you can hear the uneven cackle
of the chainsaw miles and cities away.

Sometimes it sounds as if the tree might win,
flexing its core against the cutting chain,
but we hear a whirr and then a whistle,
saw cutting only air, only where birds were.

Because it tumbles so unwillingly,
the branches make sure a ruckus is made,
there is a flailing, arms reaching for arms,
snapping against them as it falls, in slow motion.

In the valley, we hear the scream of saws,
from the mountains, in parts hidden by clouds.
the townspeople watch the waters rise,
how they grieve their dead and blame the storms.

You cannot kill a tree in secret,
for landslides rumble, and mothers wail,
and dogs, with nervous nails, on rooftops,
their wet yips traveling far and wide.