Notes From The Woods, Time Before

Broken trees
Twisted twigs
Bunches of branches

And every once in a while, a tree, bigger, older than the rest. The ones who were here before the logging, before the stone walls, before the grazing sheep, before the trees that I’m looking at right now.

This is my woods, not mine really, but the woods I walk in
the woods who I’ve gotten to know and who I feel have gotten to know me too.

Mostly tall skinny trees, branching their leaves at the sky.
But also, ash whose bark sags exposing its scarred bones,
the elms who don’t live long enough to get old.

And the still standing trees, naked with old woodpecker holes, alive with the animals who live in them.  Birds, chipmunks, squirrels, spiders and moths.

And don’t I wish a wood duck or two.
But I  know, that just because I haven’t seen them, doesn’t mean they aren’t there.

The Wolf Pines are deceiving.  White pines that grow thick quickly and look older than they really are.

But not the Maple

The one
with the three fingers
thick as trees
reaching up so high I can’t see the tips of them.

The one
on the edge of the clearing
recently logged
that lives in a haven of moss, rocks
and circle of spruce.

The one
that holds time before
in its open palm.