Dark, the forest before the woodsmen came,
the cedar fencing out the sun,
tangling even the legs of the furry ones,
corpses of trees the only root supports.
The machine wriggled through the mud,
scything, grasping, piling cedar and not-cedar,
incense on the air whispering over damp stumps,
and this morning
a bald eagle circling the open field,
a laugh and a brightness
etched on a blue sky.