The Day the Loggers Came

 All day long
giants fell
in slow steady arcs
against a cloudless sky.
One after the other,
indiscriminately.
Thunderclaps
in the name of progress.
 
Early evening
a hawk circled the sky
scanning the ruins
for what once was his.
 
At last, he came to rest
in the high branches of a dead oak
that was left unscathed,
while perfect trees lay stacked,
decimated branches
budding with wasted life.
 
Sorrow settled in every feather.
Wings heavy with grief,
his eyes still searched
for home.
 
“I’m sorry,”
I whisper helplessly to the hawk

and me,
 
Because my giant also fell.
Loss
in a slow steady arc
stretched across an ocean.
Grief
thunder-clapped
over continents.
 
Like the hawk,
I perch in my bewilderment
scanning the wasteland
longing for what once was mine.
  - ​April 20, 2020