The morning the bulldozers arrived
dawned cold and gray in that
soft-focused way midwinter has
of lulling you into believing it might
soon come to an end.
Unbeknownst to us, during the night,
a fleet of equipment had trundled in.
Now they hid, noses to the ground, m
shrouded by dried grasses and
the fragile embrace of leafless limbs.
As dawn melted into day, those great
yellow beasts began to stir, belching
smoke and raising a metallic roar.
At this, the nearby trees trembled
for the terrified creatures dwelling
among them. The creatures trembled,
too, for the trees, whose presence was
often their only solace, their shelter
from a mystifying, encroaching world.
Still, the rumbling giants came,
and woods and woodland creatures
trembled in vain.
One by one, the machines turned
their relentless force against the trees.
So divided, they fell, trunks snapping,
each rending the air with the prolonged
crack of a shattering heart.
Without a pause, eight gap-toothed
blades advanced upon the sleeping fields,
while, behind them, a handful of men
fed the remains of sentinel elms and
towering oaks—neatly piled, like bodies
after a bloody battle—into an insatiable
maw.
At day’s end, the ground bore only
a trace of golden dust, which the wind
swirled into a ghostly forest that rose
and fell throughout the night.
The next morning dawned cold and gray,
in that bitter way winter has
of reminding you it has not even begun.
And we, venturing out, saw this:
Where once a life-giving woods grew tall,
now there is emptiness.
Where once fertile fields rippled and
bloomed, now there is only dust.
(c) 2020 by Hannah Six
