Here come the earth movers.
They’re coming to take it away:
Topsoil, spruce, stumps, and weeds.
Oh how we’ve pined for this day.
They shove, rip, and roll over
any life painted orange with a can.
Death, destruction, renewal:
how I wish it were different for man.
The birds who found their trill here,
feeling easy and free without fright,
now must search for a new home,
one without clamor, fire, or blight.
As for our canid neighbors—
the gray wolves and their pups—
they’ll need to follow the tracks of the doe,
and a fresh place to feast on her guts.
And the elk, the moose, and the bear?
They’ll want to move along too.
The meadow’s not safe or relaxing;
It’s starting to sound like a zoo.
Yes, the earth movers are here,
and now it’s too late to turn back.
Is that the sound of my future,
or my heart beginning to crack?