copyright Thomas Robinson / www.Zoomdak.com
Clear Cut You ask me of chickadees and finches flitting through a golden wood. Of luminescent ferns and new sprung pines branching from a fallen alder. Of talkative creeks and steadfast rocks under the turmoil of time. Where we were, once, among these soliloquies of beauty.
Do you remember? Remember these times? Or is it only reminisce.
Snarling they came, loud in two ways. Big voices and silver sparkles, unjust chains, ruthless as hungry bears.
Foul oil surrounds us. Heavy feet surround us. Black clouds surround us.
They kill us, the dry-eyed children, knocking us down like weeds. They drag off our elders and there we lie, naked and forsaken, drying up in the clearing of time. Turning brown, and forgotten. And you ask.
Come and see the trees lie fallen.
Come and see. The trees lie fallen.
Come and see,
the trees, lie fallen!