by Fred McLeod

They would make good timber, I thought, walking down
the gravel service road that curved narrowly through
a hillside plantation of trees. I wondered how old they were,
how long it took to grow so tall and straight, reaching for sunlight.
They could have been planted mechanically, I thought,
seeing how they followed, row after row after row, each in its own place.
Looking up, I could see some trees stretched their crowns above the others
and knew some subtle difference had made them thrive,
made their roots spread wider, deeper,
which sure as sunlight let their leaves overspread those closest to them.
In the understory I could see warped and diminished scions
starved for light and sustenance.
Cold in the shade of what reared over me,
I was glad to come to the end of that woods.
Slipping through the stile in a fence,
I went where they could not follow,
walked down a path through a field of wildflowers,
found ease in the sunlight’s warmth.
Heading towards a tree that spread wider than tall,
I wondered if it bore fruit,
if it was water I saw flowing in the distance.
Turning back, I nodded to myself,
“They will make good timber.”