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.