Rolling hills, brightly colored.
Red, orange, yellow, green–leaves.
Majestic trees; some willowy, graceful–
maidens of the forest.
Others tall, straight and broad–
warriors of trees.
All wave and sway;
a rippling ocean of color.
Yet this beauty cannot last.
Monsters come, made of metal;
belching smoke from tall round towers,
roaring as they rip and tear.
Their huge black feet
roll over the ground,
trampling all in their path.
The tall trees with leaves of yellow
fall amid the mud.
More monsters come,
to shred fallen trunks–

Rolling hills–muddy red-brown.
Tracks criss-cross, piles of dirt
litter the landscape.
Rain runs off.
Landslides down hills.
Building rise from the ground,
stiff and dead–lifeless.
Whispers slip through open windows.
Haunting, ghastly murder–
fallen tress.


Jenny Dahl

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