imposing his will upon the land

Plucking 250 year old oak trees as easily as unwanted hair,
a man and a single transforming machine, cutting, grabbing, ripping tossing

the sound of money making

levelling the wooded acreage
behind my home.. behind my house... where I live .. where I paint...

in one day
it is gone

the color dance through countless rounds of seasons changing
yellow acid green to leather red, purple and grey,
the sun low in the winter, high in the summer
a tapestry of changing light

Dust hangs over the piles of dying leaves and bleeding trunks,
the smell of sugar, sickening sweet in the summer sun.
I stand like a post, gaping at this scene, my heart shut down in helpless silence

what can be said
how can this be so

birds cry out
the raccoons will have to find another place to sleep
the tree frogs will not sing tonight