Ode to a U.P. Forest

Flat as mat trails,

dirt turns to sand.

Hale hemlocks hail

with no white strands.

Big, broad, bold beeches,

paper birch peels away,

multi-trunk red oaks,

sugar maple points play.

There is no understory,

only those grown up top.

The smaller plants, saplings

from above have been dropped.

There is no rhodo or azalea or laurel.

What’s the same is the claim

in the nightwing’s dark quarrel.

For the towering trees

cover all but the shrieks

of the crows’ primate calls

to whatever they seek.

Strong cedars stand,

swinging low limbs.

Hear turkey twattle

and woodpecker hymns.

A silence so settling,

a solitude so true,

comes over the wood

now that sunset is due.

Leaving the forest,

out onto the dunes,

no words needed here,

no rhyme-rich round runes.

This scene so serene

speaks for itself

in hues,

oranges, blues,

camera dies at 9:12.

June 17, 2019

Photo by Mar Startari, 2019

Maria Startari-Stegall