The Quandary

The Quandary Standing high on the mountain side I take in the first breath of morning It seems so much more refreshing here Maybe it is the altitude that we are at The aroma of my morning brew reaches my nostrils The steam a reminder of the time of year As I survey the pristine landscape my thoughts wander to home Father would be at the farm readying for harvest He too would be having his first cup of java I can hear mother in the background reminding him of something Soon he would be culling the herd for winter meat Isn’t that what people say I do, cull Yet for me, gazing down the hillside, it does not feel the same Sure I do this with my fellow men to survive But it feels like we are taking them out in their prime That somehow it is a travesty Back at some distant headquarters they will remind that others will follow We are only doing what needs to be done That much good will come of what we will do today And in that is my quandary I see them fall some younger, some older, some not at all Those few spared to provide seed for new generations That last gasp is the same regardless of their age The word “timber” signaling their death knell That which took decades if not centuries to grow Will be felled in a matter of minutes The tree which has lived longer than I now dead A seedling placed where it once so proudly stood I am a logger But you can call me Bob Andreas Simic©