Green Ash

Through the woods by Indian Creek
on a hill that slopes like a starling’s beak
There is an ancient, thick-grown ash
(spared by loggers  on every pass)
with brotherly branches flinging wide,
wild from growth and tall as pride.

A forester measured it out for oars,
at five hundred, maybe more,
but no man wants to heave the ax
that takes such beauty down at last.

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