I often walk to the forest near my house so I can’t

see the rooms of my house that confine me.

I’m not smart enough to speak Tree, but I want to learn

how the distance is never as great as we think

between where we are and where we want to be.

It’s difficult to listen to the clap of crows winging

away from here, but I want to learn how to do it.

Chain link fencing surrounds the new pit

earth movers made of this corner where a 100-foot

water tower will be raised. But they razed

100-year-old trees to make room. The pit

is walled in on all sides by the rocks and dirt

that once filled this space. The berms circle 15 feet high

on all sides. I want to trample to the top of the berms,

feel the dirt give way under my feet. None of this business

is neat. It’s as messy as the art room

of the elementary school a short walk from this pit.

The light is used to watching the children play in the yard.

The light climbs the trees all day, low to high to low again,

but how can it climb when the trees are now gone?

We keep our sorrows to ourselves, just like

the balsamroot and service berries keep

secrets they won’t speak.  I wish I could speak to them all,

tell them I’m sorry for this pit that wrecked their home.