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The saws are silent now;
gnashing teeth flashing
the frozen gleam
of static victory.
Men and their metal
clear their carbureted throats,
sing a song
of diesel grunts,
skid the mightiest of timbers
limbless, leafless,
flailing amputees.
At least the pines are safe
for now.
Come dusk
they wait till my eyes close
that they might lower branches;
soft the needle wreath
beneath my tired head.
Rest with me
until the dawn,
blanket me
sweet forest floor.
May my hands caress
your veiny roots
before the final sun.
R.J. Barnes lives in Buffalo.

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