So you’re falling in love.
With each green tendril, and 5 fingered paw mark in soft,
and silty stream bank.
Your sit spot calls to you,
with small but insistent voice.
You spend time watching, and listening, and wandering, and discovering
You are a child again,
And then one day you see them.
The small sticks with the orange flags marking straight line
through forested stream side,
or soft sloping hill.
The mark of madness.
over the fallen logs where salamanders lay
and the butterflies land to rest their weary wings.
Through the delicate strands of twining honeysuckles
and dazzling purple violets, yellow buttercups and ruby red trilliums.
Over the roots of the old sycamore, and under the shade of the sinewed and muscular beech.
You follow them
cold knot of tension clutching at your belly,
through the land you’ve come to love.
And you cannot stop watching
a few weeks later
when the big yellow, and orange, and green
trucks come rolling in
tearing tires and deep treads,
the sound of chainsaws replacing bird calls
and the smell of asphalt
where before there was only the sweetness
of soft damp soil.
It’s only later
after the machines have gone away
that you walk
through the place
you used to sit, and swim naked in the stream.
And the sobs come,
tearing from heaving chest like
clamoring to break free.
There are the soft bodies of the salamanders.
and the ground nesting birds,
giving way to decay,
dried like mummies
or revealing smooth bones beneath.
Gone are the twining vines and delicate flowers,
the tree roots and whispering leaves.
And you are broken like the land.
It is no small thing to fall in love these days.
There is a war here, raging.
We are the warriors,
Thank you for listening,