Normally, the loggers arrived and left while I was at work; I didn’t see or hear the job of killing trees. Today was different. I refused to look around me, didn’t want to see, but the piles of roadside logs couldn’t be ignored. I found treetops strewn, the ground muddy. It wasn’t long before I felt lost. There were pyramids of them amid grapples, saws, and long-armed trucks, sawdust bleeding everywhere. Then I saw it: one log’s cut-end had a heart-shaped knot at its core, and it broke me. I’ve always talked to trees, but now they spoke to me.
Julene Waffle is a mother of three boys, a teacher, entrepreneur, and writer. She loves her family, her dogs, writing, and nature, in that order. Find her at www.wafflepoetry.com and on Twitter and Instagram @julenewaffle.