AuthorDeniord, Chard

move from tree to tree in the thrill of felling, feeling the sky inside their eyes as the canopies open onto forever and the blue blue hue of heaven croons a song called "nothing" called "everything" as the chorus of foliage soughs a-long beneath the noise of Brobdignagian saws at the necks of oaks, pines, palmitos, kapoks, baobabs, ashes, palms, ipe, teaks, redwoods, locusts, walnuts, mahoganies, birches, hickories, beeches, cedars, spruces, hemlocks, cherries, and firs for a reason they can't explain other than to say, "We're following a longing to raze the trees we love and because they're there is all with a cost we can't resist to tear the sky and also--dare we say the supra-lapsarian saw?--because we can," which sounds depraved, we know, but echoes as a call that lures us into the oldest groves where the hermit thrush incants a song that grows as an aural seed inside the ear inside our ears: "oh holy holy, ah, purity purity eeh, sweetly sweetly" and the chickadee's stutter upbraids in vain: "There's something deeply wrong beneath that has swelled to a 'progress' that is no less than the clear-cut forests that are void of any Hawthorne effect which might have disabused you of the fact that a tree...

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