i wonder, the trees, what do they think
to see it churn, devour, lumber up and down
like a mechanical bull gone mad in the town square
or mrs. peedwinkle in the church basement,
with her fingers clutched with skirt
they appear in the fall, out of nowhere
going everywhere
like migrating dinosaurs
hungry for the harvest
and as they chew up the land
razor-clip the wheat, soybeans and corn
i think too, of the stories told
of seasons past and generations gone
they thresh the history of families
birth, laughter and tragedy
told over early coffee
or that late afternoon beer
when the truck feels its leather
and these trees, where gray squirrels plot their larceny
they too have seen it all from the edge of woods
where does give birth to a bulging freezer
and seasons upon seasons have been
laid across their aging
and i wonder as the wind blows one more
what do they think
to see such passing
these trees, silent stanchion
