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The loggers have big honking macho machinery--today I watched one crashing through the woods, breaking down trees, bulldozing roughshod over everything in its path and I thought I'll bet the driver of this machine gets a hard on being able to assault, mangle, pillage, rape and destroy precious and beautiful things. I bet he goes home and drinks beer and beats his wife. He's used to kicking things around.
They are coming closer and closer to my property--just across the branch now. During the destruction, it suddenly rained hard for a couple of minutes, like tears of sorrow over what is being lost. Raindrops sparkled like diamonds on the big trees, a breeze rustled the leaves, a soft sound like distant surf.
Their time would soon be up, these trees 80 and 100 years old that had survived Katrina and still are struggling to recover. They are so beautiful and irreplaceable--they and the plants that grow under their dappled shade. Birds don't greet the dawn with song anymore--they have been silenced by the whine and rumble and roar of machines that left them homeless.
Every tree that crashed to the ground made me wince. I haven't been able to get a lawyer or anyone else interested. So I park, watching the machines come closer and closer and bear witness to environmental murder. Susil
