Today they are cutting down
the old maple in the backyard,
a crew of three men, one
on a machine with long neck
that raises him into high branches;
one who has dismantled a part
of the fence that hugs the tree;
one wearing spikes, his chain saw
and other tools hooked to his belt;
high up, cutting thick branches
among dense leaves, working back
towards the scarred and damaged trunk.
The old maple has blushed faint
green in spring, glowed gold in fall,
spun lace in winter, runway and airport
for squirrels, birds—an owl one year—
a pair of woodpeckers who nested,
laid eggs: a starling killed the chicks.
But it's older than we are old
and might come crashing down.
It's being dismantled, the way
age dismantles, higher branches
cut first, then pruned back
until we can see from the sliced
raw trunk—twelve feet around—
an account of age. At dinner time,
three squirrels, tentative, peer
over the fresh stump,
perplexed that their whole world
has vanished.
