TMT clear cut, feb 2013

the woods are screaming
I am her killer
  my hands around her neck
and I rail against her execution

that day I carried the bisected portion of a sturdy second-growth giant
in my running pack for twelve miles until
I was slow with the effort of its weight
and cried when I released the slice back to the forest floor because
I wanted to remember how the bare land
rejected the rain
how the doe wandered in an unfamiliar raped moonscape of
mud and the nonsense of tire tracks
where she used to create cud out of the green earth's fodder

I was also lost

head twitching in the open land
wondering which way to go and feeling

marry yourselves to the earth