The silver birches march to peace beneath the paling sky
Gold and russet-brown their love lies around their feet
“Tall and proud the warriors stood who christened us with blood
Cold and empty lie they now amidst our tangling roots.
Are we but warriors, too, to fight and then to die?
Contained within a prison-skin, cut off from Lover Earth
No tendrils reaching deep within and out to other kin
The rootless ones have no means to see the Life-ness
Of us all.” Skittering in the leavings of their love,
A stripe of fur. “Rooted ones are trapped in place
While free ones play.” “And die,” a hiss and slithered gulp.
“And die,” a stoop of talon and of feather
And silence drops like shards of bone amid the standing staves.