Well, I thought I was going to write a poem about this, but I’m either too tired or too tired (yes, I’m awake enough to know that I’ve typed that phrase twice) to do that right now, so I think I’ll just narrate a brief experience from today:
I’m not a “treehugger.” I promise. I do care about the environment; likewise. I believe that the logging industry understands that creating sustainable forests through clear cutting or whatever methods they use probably works well in places like the Northwest. So, when I relate this anecdote, please don’t think I’m trying to be political. I’m not.
As we drove from the Mendocino coast over Hwy 20 to Willits this morning, we followed a logging truck for a good 20 miles. On the truck were three sections of a monstrously mature redwood. The largest section, as determined by twenty miles of close proximity, gave away the age of the tree to be well over a hundred years old, probably several hundred years old. I don’t know the circumstances for the tree to be finding its way presumably to the mill, but I couldn’t help but feel as if we were in some type of funeral procession…our line of cars slowly snaking its way through the mountains, the highway lined with mourners, the giant redwoods all standing at tall attention for their fallen brother.
Word Play 