We heard the clean-up crews,
the bite of metal machines that ate
the wood of trees victim
to nature's recent whim.
The crunch came distant and echoed
absorbed by the river, and a few survivors.
We gave in to temptation
to walk with lead-filled feet
and gape at ancient trees
down as bones in piles-
the undertakers gather them, grind away.
I suppose we'll get used to it,
the barrenness of it all...
we stared up, more sky to see.
As if dragged, we traveled further
past the retirement home,
saw the elderly: the ancient
witnesses to the new landscape,
they sat as bones in piles.
We passed, guilty with fleshy legs
as they wondered when nature would choose
and who would gather their remains.
We have not returned to the river.
The crews are done, the dead are gone-
we live not needing the reminder
of finality and nakedness
when the bones are carried away.
Andrea Jazwiecki
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