You could never run your fingers through these woods.
Oaks are being strangled by the honeysuckle vines, flood
struck timbers beg to trip what runs, the mulch is as thick
as pride. Only winter tells you this. In her bareness every
curvise bend of bark has signed its name against another
living thing, as if infringing were the sin, or hell, of plants.
And plenty there is, although even half choked by some
thing else, life thrives. Only the cedars come off as saints,
in their chubby evergreen, so perfectly shaped. Now and
then one will try its way across a power line and lose its
handsome form. Driving by you almost wish they'd cut it
to the ground. The thicket has its shade, summer forgives
almost everything, but under high wires, reaching isn't
permitted. Anything stemming perilous voltages martyrs
growth itself. Linemen understand the will to live but being
keepers of the spark, they must hold cedars in check.

dw/06