A downed tree lay uprooted at the forest’s edge
Augmenting the fertile lions of the field with decay.
Truncated before the bases of the still standing, who
Tamp down the fallen as they, like soldiers,
Charge toward the pestilent swarm of leaden wasps
Whizzing by or whipping lethal stinger to carnage,
Painting the indifferent air with sprits of pink mist,
Pacifying the aggressor and healing his hostility.
Now, no longer, neither ally nor foe—indifferent—
Hence, the dispatched may evermore hold its peace,
For the stilled stay; needless of motive or movement,
And ends never sought remain ends never reached.
To the sullied soil of feudal fields the fallen resign.
From the earth the rooted receive enlivenment. Here,
The droves of infantry hold their ground beneath the sun.
They grow. They Prosper. Here,
Where the fawn bears its whitetail flag,
The humming bird flouts the hymns.
And the woodpecker keeps the rhythm,
The inanimate choirs enchantments chorus
From the vast droves of temperate forests.