Arts + Scene » Poetry

Sitka

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We won't ever
Know
How long that sitka stood,
Its green spiky needles
Harvesting fog fragmented sunlight
Over the willow marsh.

The rings would tell us, yet
We'll never
Know
When
It died standing
Or why.
We'll never know how many
Osprey
Fledglings came into the world from its nest,
Cared for and loved
By their hopeful parents
Sheltered by the precipitation ridge
Blocking winds off the
Pacific

Now we will only
Know
When the great
Sitka snag
Lost its head
In a January squall
To fall,
Nest and all
Into the willow bog.

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