The storm brought it down last week.
Roots up like a hand
still asking something of the dark.
I sat on the trunk at dusk.
Wet came through my jeans.
The dogs moved ahead in the grass.
Cedar keeps its smell even dying.
Sharp, clean, a little sweet.
The kind that stays on your skin
after work is done.
Dew held to every blade.
What light was left caught there.
Somewhere in the timber
a branch knocked slow against another.
Ants traveled the split bark
as if the fallen thing
were still giving orders.
Moss took what it could.
Rot worked low and patient in the grain.
The wind came through steady,
enough to move the fir tops
and make the whole wood speak under its breath.
You feel small in that kind of light.
Not ashamed. Just measured.
I stayed until the moon
came ghostly through cloud
and every trunk went black as stove iron.
Then I stood.
The ants kept on.