Walking the usual sidewalk,
but something’s different...
could I always see
the mountains from here?

I hear the buzz of chainsaws,
and across the street,
see men working in hard hats,
and the bulldozers,
the piles of trees,
the yellow metal claw
digging at an intransigent stump
two hundred years thick,
a sapling in colonial days.

Unobstructed,
Mt. Rose stands naked
to the west,
all her snow melted,
save one small
teardrop shaped patch
in a shadow near the summit.

The view is glorious,
but it won't be long
until new warehouses
painted in earth tones
block this mountain view
more thoroughly
than oaks and elms
ever did.

But people will have jobs
for the construction phase,
and later shipping
cardboard boxes of stuff
to other people
who desperately need it,
treasure tossed on doorsteps
by overworked delivery men.

For now,
I enjoy the view.