The smell of felled trees
Wafts on this morning's breeze
Two great pines that stood on our street
Crashing to the ground from sixty feet
Of dangerous dead wood
The last of a forest that stood
Outnumbered by civilized homes
And what took thirty years to crown
In thirty minutes was gone
Leaving us staring at the stumps
Inhaling the scent and the dust
And suddenly sensing around us
Quietly creeping toward their return
The rustling of needles and cones
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