The Felling

When the last
soft
poplar
fell,
and the bluejays – the bluejays –
rolled out;

When the mangled nest
spilled out
these mouths,
these bent
feathered
tufts;

When the chainsaw stilled
its shriek and whir;

When thick air closed
about us;

When the larger jays
swept off the elm
and veined away –
blue lines on a blue sky,
blue abandon in a blue
eye;

It was then,
in the clearing of dead wood,
in our new fell garden –
in the making of us –
our one and green tomorrow –
blue and five tomorrows
died.

Image: Adrien Ledoux on Unsplash

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