Wounds
Fallen needles cover the ground
until the harvester begins to slash
through high grade pines.
Its dripping oil stains a rainbow
in the puddles as it bunks the dead
for the log loader. Tires slice
the red clay that runs like blood.
Logging trucks chew up the entrance,
leaving a ragged wound. Rumbling
to the sawmill, they drag red
down the highway.
Finally, silence is the only noise
that falls. The dried ruts of darkened
blood are scattered in what is left.
Spring, little blue stem begins to scab
over wounds, softens the landscape
followed by thin pines reaching for the sky
like skin healing over the cut.
