“A Chorus of Teeth”
In 15 years, the saplings had grown tall.
They jockey for sunlight, etching out the weaker ones,
Those youthful and brash who must see the end, but do not accept defeat for some years.
The wooden chorus ascends ever-upward until the sky would have them no closer.
They are older and fit to be climbed,
I am older, fit to do the climbing
Seasoned hands scale the branches of a coastal redwood like an arpeggio
This one more northerly than nature would give,
In even her most charitable.
The best and worst alike
Axed, scratched, sawed, and otherwise pulled from the low-sky,
Into the irons for the coming winter.