NATURE’S SENTINEL

I stopped hiking and chose to rest on a stump.
I sat a little in awe of this reminder
of the ongoing conflict
Between Man and Nature.

The stump is four feet wide,

Old and blackened,
Its bark still in place
Like an ancient leathery hide.

I counted its rings
To determine its age.
Two hundred and sixty years to gain this size
From the seedling’s birth to its final demise.

A hundred thousand days
This behemoth managed to survive.
Through all of Nature’s hazards
It remained alive.

After Summer’s soft suns
And cold Winter’s nights
It encountered Mankind
And lost its final fight.

The stump’s been here for quite awhile
The old logging roads are now
Overgrown and abused.
A century has passed since they’ve been used.

What stories could this old stump tell?
If it could only relate,
And talk as well,

What truths would it state?

Its home is a saddle
Between two Nevada peaks,
Surrounded by a meadow
Filled with summer wild flowers.

It’s rained of late
And all the flowers bloom.
Purple and orange,
Wherever there’s room.

How many wet summers
Had this tree seen?
How many dry years,
Dusty and lean?

Examining the rings
I find a few that are wide,
Formed in years full of rain
Without drought’s thirsty pain.

Years of easy living
No hardship or strife
Soft Summer’s sun
An ideal life.

Then came the years
That must have seemed without end,
searing summer drought
Harsh winter’s wind.

These rings were thin
And numbered so many more
Sketching out a century
When this tree’s life was poor.

I guess it’s life
Was like that of man.
So why did it have to end
At his callous hand?

With never a thought
The woodsman’s axe bit deep
The tree shuddered and fell
Into Infinity’s sleep.

It rode down a flume
To splash into the lake
Then off to a mill
Its thirst for timbers to slake.

Carried across the desert
To support a silver mine’s roof,
Of man’s reign over nature
This tree offered proof.

Man dug out the metal
Long buried there.
He raped and he pillaged
With hardly a care.

Finally Nature tired of this game
Giving an outcome always the same.
Even though the timbers held true
Tons of water came crashing through.

The miners’ screams were brief
And muffled by the river’s roar.
No one heard their final shout
As Nature won this final bout.

A hundred years later
The timbers are still there
Protected by water
From the harsh desert air.

And does the rain
And Winter snow
Erode this stump
Into that under ground river’s flow?

Or does the stump
Sit here today
Awaiting Nature’s return
To carry it away?

To some Heaven somewhere
Where only trees may go
Some things I think
Man will never know.

This stump may sit at Heaven’s gate
Yet I’m not allowed enough years to wait
So I do walk away
Full of thoughts about life
Which only trees might state.
****