A Forest Without Birdsong
By Erin C
Published 10 September 2024
They rose in rows
in the wake of the slaughter.
On razed ground still groaning,
from the tearing up
of ancient root-veins,
of fungi filament fingertips.
They shed needles
that choked that
tried to regrow,
and had no branches
to offer the birds a home.
When they fell,
they gave no shade
nor food to hopeful
burrowers or ferns.
Instead they stripped
them bare and dragged
them out, the slaughter
now the only rhythm
of this forest without birdsong.