Chainsaw whine, like air-raid sirens,
Warn of falling danger nigh.
No more to give screen and shelter,
Down firs come with crack and sigh.
Stumps and limbs awaiting fire,
In funeral pyres are heaped up high.
I know they're only trees, not creatures;
Still – their destruction makes me cry.
Now you see 'em;
soon you won't.
Today it became apparent that we lost the logging lottery. The out-of-state buyer of the neighboring property must have ruled against leaving a screen between our parcel and his, because workers were busily felling the remaining trees. Distressed, I went down to ride my horse, unsure if I would find respite within sight and sound of the destruction. But eventually the discipline and focus of dressage, of dancing with my horse, took over, and I returned to the house in a slightly better mental state than I left it. Then we left for an afternoon at homeschool co-op, so the activity was completely out of sight/out of mind for a few hours. When we returned, I paused to snap a view of our north property that has never been visible till now, and put it on Instagram.
The loss of beauty, habitat, and privacy is sad; the thought of hazmat-suited vineyard workers on tractors pulling trailers spewing chemicals right next door is downright scary. In the past I have avoided walking or riding my horse past nearby vineyards when they are being sprayed; soon we'll be exposed to those toxic chemicals in the "security" of our own backyard/pasture.
Yep; no control over this or anything else except how I choose, with God's help, to handle it. One tool for coping is knitting.
I finished a second pair of Nalu Mitts out of Browning's handspun; now I have nothing on the needles. I think I'm going to cast on a Father Cables hat, and quick!
That's it for now from . . .