A certain meadow surrounding a tule pond and Miwok bedrock mortars appears destined to soon become a subdivision. I was walking my new dog there the other day, and visited this old dead tree asking for its perspective:
The Old Snag Speaks
I’m wrinkled and gray-skinned, sentinel
over meadow; I’m wise survivor, though dead.
Alive in spirit. My corpse gives life to life
around me. Wildlife-tree, nesting and shelter
for birds and small beasts. I’m a totem.
From different angles, a great lizard, or raptor
with fearsome beak; or bear lifting one paw
begging to let me remain here. My old friend
trees are long gone, fallen, or cut down
in their prime. I’m an anachronism. I know
the world is changing. We green beings
have our underground networks; we get news
on the wind in our leaves. In this wildflower
meadow are plates with words pressed into metal:
Sanitary Sewer. Man-holes. Soon this meadow
will be gone to streets, houses, garages. I’ll
be gone – not left to bow to nature’s plan,
becoming soil and new life, but felled
by chainsaw, hauled from my homeland
in pieces. Useless.
Â
~ Taylor Graham
