above the forested
canyon so the light
was still dim and gray.
I passed the stump
of the redwood felled
by loggers a hundred
and fifty years ago.
Hollow now and covered
with moss, it looks like
a grave-robbed
green sarcophagus.
Two sawyers working
a ten-foot cross cut saw
and driving iron wedges
with heavy sledges
may have worked for days
to slay the ancient tree.
Then the limbs were stripped
and the trunk cut into lengths
short enough for teams of oxen
to haul the five-ton sections
on heavy sledges with greased
runners to the railroad.
The only sound this morning
was my footsteps on the trail
and a single bird somewhere
up the canyon.
I live in a house built
of redwood, I walk across
a deck made of redwood
to get to the asphalt road.
I think I should offer
a prayer of gratitude to
those trees that gave their
lives for our shelter.
There is a large one just
a few feet from the front door
surrounded by an octagonal
bench made of redwood.
Perhaps in dark of midnight
of the new moon, I will get
naked and go out the front door,
and give thanks to those trees.
I could sit on the bench,
careful to avoid splinters,
and listen to the last carousers
downtown at the Silver Peso,
far away dogs, highway
traffic even father away, or
the close whisper of a breeze
echoing my breath.
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