Behind my house the dried leaves
line the floor of woods in winter’s dress,
bare gray tree trunks frozen in the cold.

Near the ridge line I see
a clump of brown take motion, one
and then another, and another.

I try to count but quickly
the lumps vanish, disappear
like spirit smoke
in the silence of the wood.

The low drone of dozers,
chainsaw screams, muffled by
the mountain still intact,

Wild turkeys still claim these woods
though roads are coming, houses will rise up
where ancient oaks and maples, bear and deer
have always ruled;

houses built by urban dwellers,
city people, oblivious to the violation,
the destruction of all they
claim to love.

© by Glenda C. Beall.
Used with the author’s permission.