A Living Link
The wind wailed, and I could hear the trees cry;
as I approached the scar of a clear cut.
No birds were on the ground or in the sky,
it resembled a killing field somewhat.
Before me lay the bleached bones of dead trees;
abandoned limbs, a woodsman's axe hacked off.
And stumps of a forest felled to its knees;
while locals protest and profiteers scoff.
Old-growth forests get harvested at length,
and soon, they will disappear forever.
These trees lend the Native people their strength;
a living link, we've no right to sever.
As this clearcut drew a tear from my eye,
the wind wailed, and I could hear the trees cry.
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